


The Cupcake Guy

by nacho_bucky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bed-sharing, F/M, Fluff, Mentions of Cancer, Modern AU, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23791504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nacho_bucky/pseuds/nacho_bucky
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, Sam Wilson/Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers/Sharon Carter
Comments: 18
Kudos: 103





	1. One

Gingerly, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, Bucky lifted the trunk lid, fully expecting to see a thick mess of pink and purple frosting splattered all over the inside. Which wouldn’t do, it being borrowed. He’d assumed it would look more professional to show up with Steve’s nice blue sedan -- it politely murmured, “ _I’m a functional adult_ ” -- rather than his battered pick-up, which screamed...well, he wasn’t sure what it screamed. But “ _professional baker_ ” was certainly not it. 

_Just look_ , he thought, hardly daring to consider what he would do if the neatly-arranged trays of cupcakes had been disturbed. He’d driven carefully on the way over, meandering his way through the quiet suburban streets, observing with some dismay that many of the houses looked the _same_. Four times he’d had to pull over to verify the address on his phone.

Leading to him running nearly ten minutes late, huffing his way up the front steps of the rambling but polished Victorian house, porch lined with a colourful array of balloons, and more than a few unicorns. Bucky was reassured to see that the shape and style were pretty damn close to what he’d painstakingly sculpted out of fondant for the tops of the birthday girl’s cupcakes. 

_Thank God_. 

A deep breath, and Bucky reached out awkwardly with his elbow to nudge the doorbell. Wished he had thought to run a hand through his hair before getting out of the car, but it was too late. 

The door swung open to reveal a pair of panicked green eyes; a sharp mouth, swiped with scarlet and twisted with worry. “You’re James?” the woman asked, voice pouring out so husky and quick Bucky almost mistranslated his own name. “The cupcake guy?”

_The cupcake guy._ He tasted the phrase for a second, let it sit on his tongue -- without a proper business name, Bucky often felt a little afloat, and this one certainly had its charms. “ _Hi_ ,” he imagined saying, “ _I’m the Cupcake Guy_.” 

Half a beat too late, he realized that the woman -- Ms Romanoff, if he remembered correctly, which he surely should -- had impatiently repeated her question. “Uh, yeah, sorry,” he said quickly. “I got a little turned around by the Costco.”

“Okay, that’s fine.” She reached out to take the top tray; Bucky swallowed a prayer at her sudden grip, hoping beyond hope it wouldn’t cause the whole stack to topple over. “Let’s take these through to the kitchen, huh? Follow me.” 

The house unfolded around him in a chaotic rush; a burst of noise from the open patio doors leading to the backyard revealed an ample pool, a bright pink moonbounce shaped like a fairytale castle. A woman with long, shining brown curls stood in the middle of a gaggle of eager children, all grabbing at her sparkly yellow gown, the star-tipped wand she waved over their heads. Bucky chuckled to himself as he followed Ms Romanoff further into the glossy kitchen, dodging a small yipping puppy around his ankles, and generally leaning into the chaos of the moment. 

“Cupcakes here,” she said, setting down the first tray near the sink. “You do candles, yes?” Ms Romanoff didn’t wait for an answer before poking at two towers of sandwiches on the marble kitchen island, adjusting labels scrawled with glittering calligraphy. _PB & J_, _Royal Ham_ _Salad_. “Hello?” 

Bucky tore his eyes away from the princess in the backyard, from the hundred-and-one kids careening into the pool. Parents mingled around; music poured from a radio somewhere in the spotless living room, draped with balloons and streamers and stuffed unicorns -- and Ms Romanoff snapped her manicured fingers under his nose. “Candles, please. And you did the special one for my daughter?” 

The dog’s high-pitched barking abruptly seemed to intensify, as Bucky scrambled to quell the rising twist of panic in his belly. “Um, yeah,” he said breathlessly. “Of course. Unicorn with a tiara, you got it.” 

“ _Mommy_!” 

Ms Romanoff swore under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, I’m sorry I’m a little short. The pizza delivery got messed up, and my neighbours are threatening to call the cops, and then you were late, and my husband isn’t here, and I --” 

“Nat.” 

Both turned at the arrival of a cool, smooth voice; Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets as you stepped into the kitchen, professional and friendly with an open smile and a pale lilac blouse. Setting a clipboard down carefully next to the sandwiches, you wrapped an arm around Ms Romanoff’s shoulders, nodding at Bucky briefly. “Hey,” you said softly, rubbing across the sleeves of her blazer. It occurred to Bucky then that Ms Romanoff looked as though she’d dressed for a board meeting, rather than her daughter’s birthday party. “I called Fred; the order didn’t get lost, the delivery kid just forgot his phone. He’s on his way. And I popped next door with some sandwiches and a coupon for the pizza place. They’re fine. And look” -- your eyes shifted to light on Bucky’s then, grinning broadly -- “our cupcake hero is here!” 

Bucky couldn’t keep the flush from his cheeks at the warmth of your tone, the brightness of your smile. “Everything’s fine. And we’re going to Skype Sam at three, yeah?” 

Tension slithered from Ms Romanoff’s whole frame with a deep, steadying exhale. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I need to --” 

“ _Mommy_!” 

Bucky turned to see a forthright little girl, springy curls gathered in two buns on the side of her head, marching in from the backyard, a bewildered princess in tow. “Mommy, you’re supposed to come watch me jump in the castle,” the girl said firmly, swinging the tulle skirt of her dress with her free hand. “You _promised_. Four times.” 

“You know what, Riley?” You crouched down carefully in front of the girl, taking both her hands in yours. Bucky suppressed a smile as the princess hissed in relief, subtly flexing her hand in the folds of her skirt. “Mommy's not only going to _watch_ you jump, she’s going to jump with you. Would you like that?” 

Riley’s smile burst wide and sunny, even as her mother’s jaw dropped. “Mommy's going to _what_?” she repeated.

“Yes, she is,” you said through a tight smile, flashed over your shoulder quickly. “Your mom just needs to go change, okay, sweetheart?” 

Clapping her hands with a high giggle, Riley dashed back out into the yard on springy, bare feet. You watched her go, a fond, familiar expression on your face that somehow, miraculously, calmed Bucky’s roiling nerves, helped him settle into the moment. “Pam, why don’t you take a break,” you said, touching the princess’s arm gently, where white gloves were pulled up to her elbows. “Have some water and a sandwich. I’ll go entertain the masses for a few minutes. Chloe still good with the moonbounce?” 

The princess nodded wearily, her tiara drooping precariously over her forehead. You pointed to a high-backed stool at the breakfast counter, and then proceeded to order Ms Romanoff upstairs to find “leggings, a t-shirt, and for God’s sake, a sports bra. We don’t want a repeat of the Abners’ party.” 

Bucky busied himself with unpacking the cupcakes, arranging them carefully on the empty glass tiered display towers. Four dozen of them, all in varying ombre shades of pink and purple, topped with minuscule unicorns -- except for the most special one, which belonged to Riley. The unicorn was larger on this one, and wearing a gold-painted tiara hooked around its horn. Bucky had laboured over the thing for hours, and almost knew a little sense of loss as he settled the birthday girl’s cupcake in the centre of a small plate. 

So engrossed was he in the work, he almost jumped out of his skin when your hand settled lightly on his shoulder. “Sorry.” Your smile was just as warm, just as steady, as it had been for Ms Romanoff -- who, Bucky realized, had disappeared. “Thank you so much for filling in on short notice,” you said softly. “We really appreciate it. My usual caterer kinda flaked on me.” 

_The party planner_. Ms Romanoff had mentioned something on the phone earlier in the week, during her desperate, nine p.m. call, pressing on the “friend-of-a-friend” connections that had caused Bucky’s name to crop up. Steve had apparently been talking him up during a dinner months ago. 

He flushed now, wiping his hand on his jeans to reach out and shake yours. “Thanks,” he rasped; nerves had scraped at his throat. “I appreciate you taking a chance on me.” 

“A chance? You come highly recommended, according to Natasha. She’s very grateful you stepped in.” Arms wrapped around your middle, you leaned back against the countertop, sighing deeply. “I apologize on her behalf...she’s a little frazzled. A perfectionist, you know? And with Sam away…” 

Bucky felt his stomach sink at the name, and the sudden furrow in your brows as your voice trailed off. In his texts explaining the situation, Steve had been brief. Mentioning Ms Romanoff as a friend, the birthday party, and a caterer who’d backed out at the last minute. “Her husband?” 

“Yeah.” The corners of your mouth turned up wistfully. “Sam’s great. He’s in the military. Been deployed almost seven months now. Riley and Nat miss him like crazy, and sometimes...family stuff is just _a lot_ without him.” 

He nodded, a strange buzzing filling his ears at the mention of Sam’s job. So _that’s_ how Steve knew him. “I can imagine,” he said, clearing his throat. 

_Oh, he certainly could_. 

“Anyway” -- you pushed away from the counter, bright smile determinedly back in place -- “you’re our hero today, James. That’s for sure. I’d better get back out there. Feel free to help yourself to sandwiches, there’s cold drinks in the fridge. Could you make sure Her Royal Highness here takes a break?” 

The princess rolled her eyes playfully, biting into a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that had been carved into a neat star. You pushed a can of sparkling water closer, and winked over your shoulder at Bucky. “I’m going to show those kids how a pro jumper works in that moonbounce. If you need anything, let me know.” 

Bucky felt some awkwardness settle over the kitchen once you’d left; he exchanged a clumsy, uncertain look with the princess, who pulled off her long gloves and reached out a hand across a tray half-filled with cupcakes. “I’m Pam,” she said kindly. “You’re James?” 

“Uh, yeah.” Might as well. ‘Bucky’ was enough for friends, but if he wanted to make a go of this business, ‘James Barnes’ might sound better. “Nice to meet you.” 

A pretty smile -- a kind air. Bucky warmed to her after just a few minutes of conversation, learning that she was a grad student, paying most of her bills with princess parties on the weekends. “It’s easy money,” she laughed, “even though I look ridiculous.” 

An old instinct fluttered in Bucky’s ear; memory tugging earnestly. “You look great,” he blurted, squeezing the cupcake in his hand much too hard. 

“Thanks, _James_.” Pam’s eyes darkened -- a rich, chocolate brown. She leaned forwards on the counter; Bucky’s blood boiled: it had been a long time since a woman had looked at him so. “You know, I think it’s super cute that you bake.” 

_Super cute_?

Pam meant well, Bucky knew, but he bristled at the insinuation. Cute? No. Baking was so much more than ‘cute.’ But she couldn’t be expected to understand that, he reasoned. It was unfair of him to hope anyone would be able to know, to _feel_ what he felt. “I enjoy it,” he said stiffly. And Pam, attentive as she was, picked up on the change in his tone. 

“That’s so cool,” Pam smiled. “It’s so important to have a job you actually _enjoy_.” 

From there, the conversation bloomed easily. Bucky stumbled a few times, still awkward at the thought of small talk. Pam chatted about school, the other princesses she played; a birthday party she’d been to two weeks before when a mother had gone into labour. “She, uh, really put the ‘birth’ into ‘birthday,’ I guess,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand. He winced. 

A laugh -- the prettiest he’d heard in a long, long time. Pam joined in as you reached over her shoulder for a cell phone he hadn’t yet seen. “Talented in the kitchen _and_ funny,” you said warmly. “Don’t let this one get away, Your Highness.” 

As Pam gathered her long, tulle skirt and slid off the stool, Bucky stood back and looked at the arrangement of cupcakes. Forty-eight in total, all shimmering with a healthy dose of edible glitter. Something warm flooded his stomach, and his lips curved up into an easy, honest smile. _He’d done it_. “These look amazing,” you said, turning the phone around and angling it with the air of experience. “Mind if I take a few photos for our socials? I’ll link to yours, of course.” 

He blinked. “Socials?” 

“You know, Instagram. Twitter. We have a Facebook page and a website, too. How about you?” 

The pride he’d felt only seconds before sputtered out, and Bucky shuffled self-consciously from one foot to the other. “Uh, I don’t...I’m still…” 

"You’re still getting started?” God, you had a nice smile. “No worries. How about I take the pictures, you leave your business card, and I’ll email them to you. Sound good?” 

It would -- it would sound great, in fact, if Bucky actually _had_ a business card to offer. Pushing the hair back from his forehead, he tried to summon somewhat of an apologetic look -- relieved when you simply waved your hand. “I get it, honestly. Look, you write down your email, whatever contact you feel comfortable providing, and when you get your socials up and running, let me know, okay? I’d love to recommend you to others, and, if you’re willing, hire you again.” 

“Again?” You hadn’t even tried a damn cupcake yet. 

“Seriously, you saved the day.” A few snaps of the camera phone, and you twisted around the island, inadvertently brushing past him in the small space. Bucky stepped back, chewing his lip, shivering when your elbow pulled back and almost touched him again. “These are gorgeous, and you’re reliable.” 

“I was late,” he reminded you.

“But you’re nice and polite, and you make wonderful cupcakes,” you countered, jutting out your elbow playfully. “Look, the company I used to hire constantly let me down, and to be honest, the guy is kind of a jerk. It’d be a pleasure to work with you and support your new business, if you’re alright with that.” 

He weighed it. His living situation wasn’t ideal, and his pension was good, but not enough to live on solely. And most other workplaces he was qualified for wouldn’t be conducive to his newer requirements. Baking afforded him the quiet he needed, the more gradual pace. And he _did_ want to turn this venture into something more substantial. 

On the back of your business card, then, he wrote his number, his email, and his more formal _James Barnes_. “Nice handwriting,” you said, offering out another card. Bucky glanced down, realized that in the frenzy, you hadn’t given him your name until now. 

It was _lovely_. It was _you_. 

Written in a dancing script, on a lavender card, promising _Pretty Parties_ , excellent service, and showing off the various social media handles he’d be sure to check out later. “Got a business name in mind yet?” you asked, turning at the slapping of bare feet on the hardwood floor -- Riley was back, eyes bright with sugar and panting slightly from her efforts in the moonbounce. Bucky looked out; somehow, Ms Romanoff had made her way outside without him realizing. In a house this big, he was sure they had another entrance to the backyard. He was glad to see her jumping around with a pair of little boys, red hair bouncing in a high ponytail, and a broad grin on her face. 

“James?” 

“Huh?” He tried to refocus, on Riley’s gap-toothed smile, on your pretty voice. “Sorry?” 

“I asked if your business has a name.” Patient, calm. Easy. You were so _easy_ to talk to. Riley reached up, and fluidly, without even needing to look at her, you lifted, perching her on your hip, keeping a steady, light gaze on him. “No pressure, I’m just curious.” 

“Mommy said he’s the cupcake guy,” Riley chirped, burying her face in your neck.

Bucky laughed -- an honest-to-goodness, soul-loosening laugh. Frayed nerves from late nights and hoping so badly everything would go according to plan today, they all just simmered down, leaving him with a pleasant, warm buzz. “Yeah,” he said, grinning. “I’m the Cupcake Guy.” 

* * *

The car smelled like tacos by the time Bucky finally managed to pull into Steve’s driveway, easing the sedan into the spot next to Sharon’s SUV and his own truck. Neither had moved, so he suspected the five of them had enjoyed a quiet family afternoon together. A pinch of loneliness struck him as he made his way into the garage, thumbing through the pocket of his hoodie for his house keys while the sound of some cartoon burbled out from the living room. He poked his hand in far enough to drop Steve’s car keys on the kitchen counter, and then backed out, heading for the second door at the back of the garage. 

His door. 

With a sigh, Bucky climbed the creaking steps up to the studio apartment, the promise of tacos, the next episode of an astronomy docuseries, and a scroll through your social media posts the only things bringing even a faint smile to his face. Couldn’t help but sink down a little every time he came home, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it. 

It wasn’t much, and he supposed he ought to be grateful. A kitchenette, his own bathroom, and room for a sofabed and his television. Most of the furniture had been there before he’d come back from the hospital, inherited from Sharon’s great-aunt, which explained the aggressively-floral pattern of the sofa and the curving, elegant legs of the TV stand and end tables. 

Bucky had made some small efforts to infuse his own presence into the space. Family pictures from his childhood on the walls; a landscape of Arctic tundra he’d picked out from a yard sale months ago. He liked the contrast of a cold desert; he’d grown too used to the heat. 

On his fridge, there were magnetic school pictures of the Rogers kids, a calendar reminding him of therapy appointments and weekly get-togethers at the VA. Printed recipes and now -- he thought with a smile, standing back to look at the pastel paper held up by a plum-shaped fridge magnet -- your business card. Your name. 

He ate his tacos on the couch, the documentary running in the background, as he scrolled through Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram on his phone. Stunning pictures -- birthday parties, weddings, bar and bat mitzvahs. There’s you, smiling that wonderful smile with Pam in a mermaid costume, a long red wig tossed over one shoulder. 

Under each picture, he read gushing comments from clients. On Facebook, he found more in-depth, personal descriptions. One bride and groom could not stop raving about your attention to detail; the care you took to make each and every client feel special, no matter the occasion. He found a handful of terse complaints about food arriving late, one about a birthday cake that had fallen in the middle. Even then, in your responses to those complaints, your voice sounded warm, and sweet. 

After nearly forty minutes of scrolling, though, he saw that a new picture had popped up. 

His cupcakes. 

They looked wonderful -- that glowing pride burst in him again, and a smile broke out as he read your caption: _These stunners were made by the one and only Cupcake Guy. Social links coming soon! Princess Riley enjoyed a magical eighth birthday today -- swipe for more pics!_

A couple of swipes, and he had his own. Instagram would serve well enough for now, he figured. Once he got a handle on where exactly this whole thing was going, he could look into other options. But seeing the blank possibility of @thecupcakeguy’s page? He couldn’t stop grinning. 

After texting you the handle, following @prettyparties, and searching the tags for a few more baking accounts, Bucky fired off a quick message to Steve. “ _Thanks for the car,_ ” he typed. “ _If you have time tomorrow, think you can help me figure out a design for a business card? Today went well._ ” 

Within two seconds, a row of encouraging emojis came back. Bucky rolled his eyes; his oldest friend was a little heavy-handed with the characters. “ _Would love to, already have a few ideas in mind. Names?”_

Bucky couldn’t hold back the smile as he wrote his choice. Seeing it there felt pretty damn good -- real. Authentic. As though he belonged. “ _It just slipped out_ ,” he added.

_“It’s perfect. Nat texted and said to say thanks. Riley was thrilled._ ” 

A deep breath, and Bucky collapsed back against the sofa. 

Mission accomplished, he thought drowsily. Maybe things were going to be alright after all. 

* * *

_The sky is on fire._

_Bleeding black flame and choked screams; Bucky tears his way through a cardboard wall, a fluttering layer of green silk. And then glass. Impenetrable, thick; cold as ice. If everything weren’t so dry, so hot, he might think it_ were _ice._

_But nothing that cold could stay here._

_A scream crawls its way up his throat, bubbling out as the softest whimper. He touches his own chest; fingers come away bloody, and he starts to cry, wants his mom, wants to go home, just home. Where things are soft._

_The fire comes closer, drip-drip-dripping down from the sky, and it touches him, strokes him, and he can’t get away, he can never get away, and it’s melting his arm, flesh fusing to bone and he wants to die, just die, because wouldn’t it be sweet? Would it be --_

Panting, Bucky jerked awake, body doused in cold sweat. He peeled away the t-shirt, leaving him in just a pair of boxers and the phantom pain streaking up his arm. A flick of his bedside lamp, because no matter how many times his therapist has explained he doesn’t have to, he just needed to check. 

The scars looked more vicious in the half-hearted light. Red and white by turns, skin puckering up at the shoulder. Snaking down toward his wrist, the skin seemed almost angry, and he looked away, tried to steady his breathing and his pounding heart. 

It was always the same, the dream. Never changing. And it was the consistency of it that horrified him the most. If it were simply a matter of reliving the war, of seeing familiar faces, long gone; of the chaos of waking up in the hospital; maybe a memory of being in the humvee just moments before -- he could’ve handled that. Swallowed the bits and pieces of his past, meted out in more manageable doses. 

But to touch that day, over and over again. To know that pain and fear, every night that he closed his eyes -- a sob settled in his throat, but he willed it to say down. Not that Steve and Sharon could hear him from up here, but starting...letting that go, he could never be sure if he’d be able to stop. 

A deep, rasping breath, and Bucky swung his legs over the side of the bed. Head spinning, heart pounding, he made his way into the kitchen, quietly reaching for flour, for eggs, for peace of mind.


	2. Two

Spring slipped by with surprising ease. Bucky found himself busy most weekends supplying cupcakes for birthday parties, two bridal showers, and a golden anniversary party (which gave him a chance to try out some edible metallic food colouring). He tried his hands at cookies, flooded with royal icing in intricate designs; tinkered with some of his mother’s old-fashioned recipes. 

In the tiny kitchenette above Steve’s garage, Bucky tasted fond memories, simpler days. His childhood had been spent on a stool in his mother’s kitchen, dusted with flour and icing sugar, watching her stir and craft and carve and _create_. She’d been fearless, back then. Clear indications of her creativity and innovation were scrawled all over the neat recipe cards and notes. 

One rainy afternoon, he drove to the local library with the plum-covered recipe box he’d inherited. Just the sight of it seemed to beckon him back, back, back -- fingers flexing on the steering wheel as he stopped at a red light, wipers stroking wildly against the windshield, and Bucky smelled his mother’s carrot cake, baking in the oven. Patsy Cline crooning on the radio, in the soft embrace of a quiet afternoon, just for them. 

His safest place. 

A horn honked from behind him, and Bucky shook his head loose of the past. Time to move forward. 

Nearly a year before, the college library had begun to offer public access to the community, absorbing the struggling local branch and its meagre collection. This meant that not only did Bucky have access to as many vintage cookbooks as he wanted, but he could also make full (paid) use of the laminator. Hands shoved in his pockets, nearly buried in his hoodie, Bucky explained his request to the head librarian, who led him into the work room with a friendly smile. 

Someone was already there. 

“Fancy seeing you here, sweet thing.” It took Bucky a minute to place the voice -- Pam looked so different without her long brown braid and tiara, not to mention clad in jeans and a t-shirt. The princess hair must’ve been a wig, he realized, cheeks flushing at the pretty sight of her short, honey-brown tresses.

She was _beautiful_. 

And she was smiling at him, calling him “sweet thing” and jutting out her hip against the photocopier as it hummed out her papers. “Um, hey,” he said, shifting his backpack on his shoulder. “Nice to see you.” 

“You didn’t tell me you were a student,” Pam said. 

“I’m not. I’m just...here to…” He gestured lamely to the laminator. Pam quirked a smile, and took a step closer, enveloping him in a soft cloud of vanilla perfume. Bucky held his breath as she reached behind him to switch on the machine. 

“How long are you going to be?” she asked, still smiling up at him. Bucky swallowed and shrugged, hoping the move came off as noncommittal and not as nervous as he felt. “Because I’m almost done, and I was going to head to the campus café for a coffee. They have the best muffins, too. What do you say, James? My treat?”

“Uh --”

The offer sounded like a date, and it had been such a long time that he’d been out on one -- but Pam was nice. And Steve would say this was a step forward, a good thing. Low-risk; and a student café on a Saturday afternoon shouldn’t be too overstimulating. If it was, he’d feign a reason to head home quickly.

“Sure,” he said finally, letting out a sharp exhale and a smile that seemed to brighten Pam’s even more, though he hadn’t thought that possible. “Just give me twenty minutes or so?”

“Perfect. I’ll wait by the entrance, sound good?” 

It did. It sounded surprisingly good; Bucky couldn’t wipe the grin from his face as he turned back to the laminator, began arranging his mother’s recipe cards to slide through. Trapping in the stains, the blue-inked ideas and reminders -- he coughed around a lump in his throat, particularly at the sight of “ _Jamie’s cookies_.” 

First day of school; a soccer game that had gone poorly; a history test he’d failed, or the night Marcia Lennox broke up with him -- his mother had made those brown sugar cookies for him. Carefully shaped into teddy bear faces, complete with two ears and a Hershey’s kiss for a nose, they’d seen him through disappointment, through heartbreak and defeat. 

When he’d come-to in the hospital, he’d woken with the taste of brown sugar on his tongue, chocolate melting sweetly. Through the surgeries, the physical therapy, he’d longed for those damn teddy bear cookies, and his mother’s hand in his. 

After that, there are more memories: recipes from his grandmother, from neighbours and friends and church bake sales. It was his history, kept safe and soft in his mother’s generous, looping hand. 

Bucky braced himself on the edge of the work table, pulling out the long sheets of laminate with its dull, wobbling sound, cutting them sloppily for now. He’d trim them properly at home, he decided: his nerves over meeting Pam were growing by the second, and he simply knew the rushed, panicked urgency of wanting something _over with_. 

He’d asked for twenty, but he needed less. After checking that the laminator was turned off at least four times, Bucky gathered up the recipes in a neat stack, slid them into his bag, and headed for the main entrance of the library. The original plan had been to look for a few books (he was getting bored of just watching television at night), but there Pam was, sliding her arms into a bright pink raincoat, looking warm and kind and there was something so promising about holding a woman’s interest again. 

Granted, she hadn’t yet seen his arm. 

Pam was as easy to talk to here as she had been at the party. She led the way up a fairly steep hill, passing by the ivy-hung red-brick buildings Bucky remembered from a high school tour he’d taken, years ago, before he’d chosen the military. He opened his mouth to mention this to Pam, but then decided against it. Some things weren’t suited for a coffee and a muffin kind of afternoon. 

Besides, she seemed happy enough to talk about her graduate research in the biology department, about working for your company on the weekends. “Like, these kids actually think they’re talking to a fairy princess, or a mermaid,” she said, shaking her head with a smile as they waited in line at the café. “It’s great. Having them look up at you like that?” 

She loved her job, her research, and her friends. And though the coffee was bitter and the muffin was far too dry, Bucky couldn’t help but relax in her presence. Enjoy himself against the softer contours of her company. She possessed a keen knack for drawing him out, one he’d thought only belonged to Steve and Sharon, but after nearly an hour, he found himself offering details. That he’d travelled, liked documentaries, running; had been thinking about adopting a cat (she had two, and he was welcome to come over anytime to see them); and, of course, his baking. 

“So cute,” Pam sighed, leaning forward, cupping her chin in her hand. “I think it’s so great.” 

“Thanks.” Again, the compliment didn’t sit quite right with Bucky, but he was in a good enough mood that he decided he didn’t mind. Maybe it _was_ cute; quaint, even, for a guy his size, former soldier, hulking over a mixing bowl, organizing his sprinkles collection in the cupboard above the sink. Hoarding recipes like he’d once collected baseball cards.

“Done anymore birthday parties?” she asked. 

“Um, yeah, your...your, uh, boss sent a couple my way. Smaller things. She was hands-off,” Bucky explained, “but they needed cakes or cupcakes. I appreciate the help.” 

In fact, he’d come to look forward to your emails and Instagram shout-outs. While not officially hired on as Pretty Parties’ caterer by any means, the connection had helped him to generate some interest in his fledgling business. And, if he was being completely honest, seeing your name pop up in his inbox always made him smile, sent a little flutter through his belly. 

“She’s great, isn’t she?” Pam smiled, reaching for her phone. “Actually, you reminded me, I was supposed to text her some confirmation for a party next month. Just give me a second…” 

He looked away and around the coffee shop as Pam thumbed out a quick message. Small bistro tables dotted around the open, gleaming space of polished wood, tasteful artwork. It was a nice place, a calm place. His therapist had recommended finding a location just like this, where he could be out in public in a lowkey environment that might occasionally demand a little more of him, but not too much. Could bring his laptop, he supposed. Spend some time working on the website he was teaching himself to put together, advertising his recipes and services. “Oh, shoot, she’s calling --” Pam held up one finger and then pinned the phone between her ear and her shoulder, reaching to stir her coffee. “Hey, how are you?” she asked brightly. 

Bucky couldn’t hear your voice, but he felt suddenly warm all the same. Hunching over his empty mug and unfinished muffin, he tried his hardest not to look as though he was straining to listen in. “Actually, I’m here with the Cupcake Guy himself,” Pam said, grin widening as she glanced over at him. “No, it’s not a problem. Yeah, I can get Chloe to take a few pictures. Yup, email works. Okay, thanks, bye...yeah, I’ll tell him. Bye.

“She says ‘hi.’” Pam slid her thumb across the screen of her phone and then looked up at him. Bucky shrank back from the probing expression on her face, a slow smile dawning unlike anything she’d ever given him before. What -- unless...were his cheeks as warm as they felt? Could she tell? Had he actually _blushed_ at the thought of you thinking of him, of saying ‘hi?’ What was he, twelve years old? 

Pam bit her bottom her lip, as Bucky cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. The café suddenly seemed much too small to hold him, to hold everything he was feeling, and he thought about his safe place -- snow, utter snow. A rink, a ski slope. World painted sparkling white, and his mother, his mother could be there...five...four...three...two --

“James?” 

“Gotta go.” Bucky pushed away from the table, reaching for his bag and nearly knocking over the china mug as he did so. “I-I had a nice time,” he said breathlessly, eyes darting toward the nearest exit, the window, anywhere but at Pam’s bewildered face. “Thanks. Bye.” 

She watched him go, crestfallen and confused, her fingers still wrapped around her spoon, coffee going cold. 

* * *

It was nearly midnight before he could finally _breathe_. 

The day had melted away in a frenzy of activity and breathing exercises, as he leaned into the gentle chaos of organizing his recipes and cleaning out his bathroom cabinet. It was a productive kind of panic, manageable and purposeful, and by the time he’d showered and met himself in the fogged mirror, scraped a hand over his stubble and decided he didn’t care, his stomach was rumbling. 

Cold pizza over the sink made for a poor dinner, but after the unexpected day he’d had, it was something, at least. 

His phone buzzed with a text as he was unwrapping a third slice. A message from Steve -- “ _You up_ ” 

Bucky had enough strength by then to actually attempt a joke: “ _Aren’t you married?_ ”

He shoved the pizza into his mouth and waited for the thump of Steve’s feet on the stairs leading up to the apartment. Maybe once or twice a month they did this; Steve had nightmares too, why wouldn’t he? Didn’t like involving Sharon and the kids in the fallout, so he took advantage of having an old comrade living just one floor away, and they’d handle it in their own way. The way that helped. 

Two knocks, and Bucky unlocked the door. “Hey,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair. “What’s up, man?” 

Steve looked fine -- ordinarily, if he came up after a rough night or a flashback, his hair would be a mess, pajamas askew, looking for calm and quiet and a place to let it all out. Tonight though, his long hair was swept neatly back, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweats. A broad smile on his face. “I’ve got a favour to ask,” he said. “Mind if I come in?” 

“Technically it’s your place,” Bucky reminded him, flopping down on the couch, pizza settling oddly in his stomach. 

Steve’s eyes narrowed as he took in the too-clean kitchen counters, the laminated recipes stacked neatly on the card table. After a good day, Bucky would have something in the cake-plate Sharon had loaned him; dishes drying on the rack. Any sign that he’d spent the afternoon baking. But it was clean; too clean. “You good?” he asked, careful to keep his tone light. Bucky quickly recognized his “ _tread carefully_ ” voice. 

“Yeah, of course.” Bucky tried to keep his own voice even. He’d calmed down plenty since the incident with Pam -- he probably owed her an apology, and that was bugging him -- but he had no need to involve Steve in that. Steve, whose solution would be to set him up on a million dates. Marriage and fatherhood had been good for Steve, especially after coming home, and he couldn’t see why Bucky wouldn’t benefit either. 

And maybe he would -- but that wasn’t a life plan to be figured out at midnight, on a stomach full of cold pizza. 

“I’ve got a proposition for you,” Steve continued, glancing at him suspiciously before pulling out one of the folding chairs. “The kids’ school is having a charity bake sale on the twenty-third. Each table is going to be represented by a few students, who’ll be raising money for a specific charity. Parents and community members are donating cakes, cookies, pies -- you know.” 

Bucky nodded, shifting up to a sitting position. Seemed promising. “Anyways, Ava and Ollie were wondering if you’d be willing to contribute.” Steve smiled, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m sure the school would be open to you having your business cards available, and it would generate some good exposure for you, definitely.” 

He tried to picture it, to gauge that kind of environment. Tons of kids running around, an impatient crowd. People poking at his cupcakes, his pies, his loaves. Asking him too many questions, and he’d have to hand out the cards, make small talk, all the while keeping track of money and donations and -- 

“There’s something else,” Steve said. “Your friend, you know, the event planner?” 

Something cool and soft flooded his veins at the mention of you, as though you’d stepped into the room with him, snuggled up against him on the couch. He felt... _calm_. “Yeah,” he said, hoping to sound neutral. 

“She’s going to be there, too. Riley, Nat’s daughter, she’s Oliver’s partner on the project, and they need some adults at their table. I thought you might be more interested if you actually knew the person you’d be working with.” 

Working right next to you? Bucky flexed his fingers -- the stiffness in his left arm always seemed to be aggravated on rainy days. It hadn’t bothered him too much during his afternoon with Pam, but perhaps it was just his rising nerves. Questions bounced frantically around in his head at the prospect of volunteering with you -- what if the school was too hot, and he couldn’t keep wearing long-sleeves without you thinking it was strange? What if the kids got too loud? What if people asked him too many questions at once? What if he said the wrong thing, or looked the wrong way, or…

What if Pam had already told you how strangely he’d behaved at the café? 

Mouth gone dry, Bucky tried his hardest to swallow the panic. He knew Steve was watching him carefully, could feel the heat of that blue gaze on his bowed head. “Sharon and I are going to be there, too,” Steve said softly, “at Ava’s table. Wear a light flannel shirt -- man, you can borrow one of mine, you won’t have to show her your arm. The school wants two adults at each table so that one can handle the money and the other can handle the baked goods. The kids are there to draw people in and talk about their charity.” He spoke calmly and smoothly -- Bucky had used the same voice on him before, when Steve had once woken up to a deep, black nightmare he couldn’t articulate, but which had rocked him terribly. 

It amazed Bucky that Steve could read him that well, could translate those silent worries into actual facts. But the truth was, Steve had heard it all before: he knew how overwhelmed crowds could make Bucky, how self-conscious he was about his arm. How important it was to him to keep a certain level of calm, especially around Oliver and Ava. 

And, though he didn’t yet understand it, he was desperate to keep calm in front of _you_. He regretted his (admittedly mild) outburst in front of Pam, but that would be easy to explain away. An actual episode, though, might be more difficult to gloss over. 

Steve was still looking at him patiently, eyes soft with empathy. They knew well how to hold each other’s pain; the shape of it. Bad dreams and fears had become a second, secret language for them, and though it was hard to imagine their friendship had had its start in a sandbox, it was easy for Bucky to reach out his hand then. For Steve to shake his. A mimic of the grave first interaction they’d had, to their mothers’ amusement, nearly twenty-five years before. 

A brief shake. “Deal,” Bucky said quietly, thinking of your smile, your voice, your calming presence. 

“Thanks, Buck.” Steve grinned. “So, tell me -- you got a crush on the princess or the planner?” 

“Shut up, man. Go the hell to bed.” 

“You first, jerk.”

“Punk.” 

“Loser.” 

“ _Hey_.” 

* * *

At four o’clock in the morning, the following Saturday, Bucky slumped over on the floor of his kitchen, back to the fridge, licking the last streaks of buttercream frosting from his fingers. Remarkably, he was _done_. A solid week of baking, of fiddling with familiar recipes -- spending way too much money at the bulk store in the process. He’d enjoyed one afternoon with Ava and Oliver in the Rogers’ much larger kitchen, showing them how to bake loaves of banana bread, leaning into Ava’s innovative sweet tooth, which prompted her to suggest chocolate chips. 

The flimsy card table was groaning with the last few items -- four loaves of bread, a tub of chocolate frosting for the cake he’d decorate in the morning, once it had cooled in the fridge; lemon tarts and five kinds of muffins; marbled-cupcakes topped with fondant bumblebees, representing the school mascot.

Downstairs in the garage freezer and fridge, more waited: three pies, four cheesecakes, a variety of brownies. Steve had already claimed a few items to supplement his and Sharon’s slim offerings, but Bucky was happy to help. The entire week, he’d devoted his whole focus to the project, only pausing at night to sleep, and throughout the day to manage his increasing schedule for the business. 

Speaking of which -- 

You’d popped into his inbox at nearly ten, with an apologetic message letting him know you’d only had time to bake one cake for the sale. Bucky had been happy to be able to send you back some reassurances, and though he’d been a little embarrassed about it initially, he found enough courage to send a quick picture of his kitchen table, piled high with offerings. A string of emojis had come back, and a _“You really ARE the Cupcake Guy, huh_?” 

Running one hand down the length of his face, Bucky let out a sigh. He’d stared at those messages for nearly fifteen minutes, wishing he had the courage to text, to pick up the phone and call. But for some reason, he just couldn’t bring himself to reach out, not in any way that felt personal. 

Your tone didn’t give him any reason to indicate that Pam had shared what had gone down at the café, or that you were upset with him in any way. And really, he couldn’t quite figure out why that mattered so damn much. Shouldn’t he be more concerned about what Pam thought of him? 

“Damn it,” he said, voice gone raspy from disuse. He couldn’t work it out. He’d technically spent more time with Pam than you, and he liked her a lot, but it was almost as though you were more prevalent. Stronger in his memory, if that made any sense at all. And for a man who was used to the world making very little sense, it was nice to have something predictable. Something safe. 

Was he being a jerk? Going out for coffee with Pam, telling her she looked great, and then thinking about _you_? Had he led her on? Led _you_ on? Or maybe you both felt sorry for him, thought he was a loser, needed strangers to take pity on him and -- 

_No_. A deep breath, but it shook on the last note. There was no reason for him to be panicking like this -- he needed a couple hours of sleep before the bake sale, needed a good breakfast, maybe a short workout. He knew what he needed. Or, at least, what his therapist, and Steve, and probably _you_ would think he needed. 

Slowly, Bucky got to his feet, stretching his arms high above his head. The microwave clock read 4:03am, but that was just fine. Yawning, he reached for his large yellow mixing bowl, and a spatula. The recipe card was somewhere in his mother’s box, but Bucky didn’t need it for this one. He knew these cookies by heart. 

Shortening, white sugar, and brown sugar. Creamed together until they felt airy and fluffy in the bowl. One egg, and a teaspoon of vanilla. He hummed an old Patsy Cline song, moving swiftly around the small space to retrieve his last bit of flour, some baking soda. As he worked, his mother came back. In a warbling rendition of songs she’d listened to a thousand times before -- an old apron patterned with roses. “Come here, Jamie,” she would coo, urging him closer to watch as she rolled out smaller balls of dough for the teddy bears’ ears; rolling out flatter ones for their faces. 

She was with him as he worked into the pale, dawn light; pressing down M&M eyes, chocolate noses. Tears in his throat and small, flickering courage in his heart. He’d gotten this far, he reminded himself wearily, stumbling into the shower at seven. He’d gotten this far. 

* * *

“Um, I-I’m so sorry.” 

Bucky didn’t like the sound of an apology on your lips, he quickly decided. Nor the crestfallen expression on your face as you took in the overloaded table. An immediate flash of self-consciousness had him wanting to sweep every muffin, every loaf, every cookie into the nearest trash can, and put your contribution front and centre. Charge a hundred bucks and pay it himself, just to make you smile. 

A nervous laugh, and you shifted from one foot to the other, fingers flexing on the edges of the tinfoil-covered tray. “We can put it in the middle,” Bucky offered, reaching for a plate of brownies to make room. “Come on.”

“No, I --” 

“Whoa! That looks like a macaroni and cheese cake.” Ollie slipped his hand into Bucky’s, leaning over the table to peer at the misshapen, vividly-orange -- well, he _shouldn’t_ use the word ‘monstrosity,’ not when you were looking so embarrassed. 

“Hi.” Riley’s face was serious, peeking at Bucky from underneath a pair of tightly-braided buns. “You’re the Cupcake Guy, right?” 

“This is Bucky,” Ollie corrected, smiling at her. “He lives with us.” 

“Bucky?” you repeated. “I thought --” 

Face flaming, Bucky gave you a half-tucked smile, mortified at the rude, childish intrusion of the old nickname. Ollie’s father had started it a million years ago. But it brought a smile to your face, a genuine one, dripping with relief and goodwill. “My friends call me that,” he explained quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You can, too. If you, uh, want.” 

“Alright,” you said, face softening. “That sounds good, Bucky.” 

The kids formed somewhat of a buffer, easing the interaction demanded by setting up the table, ensuring their poster was well-displayed. Bucky couldn’t help but notice the closeness between you and Riley, who seemed a little distant, maybe even sad. Ollie tried a few times to draw her out into conversation, but she simply clung to your side even tighter and shook her head at his offer to tell their teacher they were ready to go. 

Bucky helped you gently rest the orange cake on the table, and he didn’t miss the way you bit your bottom lip, looking down at it doubtfully. It had sunken in the middle, he guessed, thus accounting for the significant dollop of icing you’d placed there, in a clumsy attempt to conceal the crater. And the colour itself -- a hazard orange, the colour of a traffic pylon, really. “Your stuff looks amazing,” you said, carefully adjusting a bag of cinnamon twists so they looked more appealing, more artful. “You must’ve been working for days.” 

Up until past midnight for almost a week? Yes, he had been. Bucky tried to suppress a yawn, and instead pulled up a chair behind the table for you, letting Riley and Oliver move to the front. He smiled as you commended them on their poster design -- they were raising awareness and funds for the local animal shelter, and Riley had carefully drawn some fairly skilful cats, dogs, and rabbits around the border. “Good job, guys,” you said, crouching down to get a better look at a plump, glittery kitten. “Ri, did your mom send a picture to your dad? I know he’d love to see this.” 

Riley shook her head, face dropping at the mention of her father. “Then I will. Mommy can send it to him, okay?” 

While you fiddled with your phone, Ollie found more courage than Bucky possessed, and stepped over to poke Riley gently on the arm. “Hey, my dad likes to draw, too. You did an awesome job.” 

“Thank you,” she said shyly, wrapping her arms around herself. Bucky’s stomach clenched; he knew the look on her face, he knew it well. She wanted her dad, her family. Walking around without that was like trying to breathe with only one lung -- it was unfair it had to happen to a kid. He swallowed thickly as Riley shot Oliver a wobbly smile, and you glanced up to catch Bucky’s eye. Your lips parted, as though to say something, but what _could_ be said? 

In the unspoken language of adults, then, you redirected, taking his small, nearly imperceptible nod as confirmation. “Your dad likes to draw, Oliver?” you asked, moving to come sit beside Bucky. There wasn’t much room; he tried not to shiver when your thigh brushed his. “He’s an artist?”

“Yeah, he did Bucky’s cards, the cupcake ones,” Ollie said eagerly. “Show her!”

Your eyes flicked over to his in interest; Bucky did his best not to fumble with the small stack of business cards he’d self-consciously placed off to the side of the table. Steve had said it was fine, that the principal and the teacher organizing the bake sale actually _wanted_ him to offer his cards, to support local businesses, but promotion still came uneasily to him. 

“Bucky, these are _wonderful_.” Your eyes brightened as you took in the design -- Steve had gone with something simple: pale yellow, looping teal script; an elegant pattern of monoline desserts sprinkled neatly around the logo; contact information stamped neatly and clearly below. “I love them. They’re you.” 

_That_ made him stare. It was the same thing Sharon had said, and she’d known him since he was thirteen. But he believed you -- your earnestness, your kindness. Calm swept over him again. 

That calm somehow remained throughout the morning, even as the gym doors opened to what seemed to be the entire population of the nearest three towns. Kids crowded around the table, enraptured by the bumblebee cupcakes he was giving away to students; one woman bought every pie on the table, and a package of muffins, but she also tried to touch his arm and wouldn’t leave even after you’d cleared your throat several times. Bucky was glad when she finally walked away, making a beeline for Steve’s table. 

You handled the customers and the money deftly, handing over his business cards with gushing praise. “He’s amazing, really,” you said warmly to one couple with twin babies. “His cupcakes are to die for. And so sweet. The cupcakes, and him.” A wink in his direction, and Bucky nearly dropped a plate of brownies. 

Two hours passed so quickly, Bucky could hardly believe it when the principal stepped up on the stage to thank all the customers and volunteers. Oliver and Riley were delighted when it was announced that the animal shelter had received the largest donation of the day, and fell over you and Bucky with squeezing, breathless hugs. “I’m gonna go tell my mom and dad,” Oliver said. “Come on.” 

The table was nearly empty, and Bucky was exhausted. A week of late nights caught up with him in the space of about five minutes, and by the time he’d packed up his remaining plates and the two business cards left, he was yawning widely and could have happily curled up for a nap on the gym floor. 

All that was left was the bright orange cake. 

His stomach sank as he saw your face, looking at the cake with a mixture of frustration and disappointment. No one had even asked about a price, for it, and one woman had let her wrist actually slide across the top of it when she’d reached over to pay. It looked worse, now. 

You caught him staring, flashed a quick, hollow smile. “I should’ve just gone to the store,” you said ruefully. “It was silly to even try.” 

“No.” Bucky tried to keep his voice firm, but kind. “It’s not silly to try, not at all. We all gotta start somewhere.”

A shrug. “I just..I spent all afternoon yesterday decorating the gym for today, and then I was babysitting Riley so that Nat could go to her book club, and by the time I got home, I just had enough in me to throw this together, and then the frosting all went to hell, and I…” You blinked. “I literally should’ve bought Oreos.” 

“You decorated the gym?” Bucky asked, glancing around with new eyes. Almost forty tables, bouquets of balloons; a banner stretched over the top of the stage; coordinating tablecloths in the school colours. The place looked amazing, so colourful and cheering. He wished he had mentioned it sooner. “Wow.” 

“It comes with the territory,” you laughed, and he was glad he could do that at least. Liked the sound of your laughter, the way it touched him, the way it urged on his own. Listening to you laugh, looking down at that miserable cake, spending time with you -- he wanted more of it. More time. More laughter. 

Bucky reached down to pick up the cake, grinning widely up at you. “So I’m gonna go donate ten bucks for this, and then how about you and I go grab a coffee? I can give you a few pointers.” 

“I’m gonna need more than a few, Cupcake Guy,” you said with a smile, totally relaxed now. Relieved. It warmed Bucky that he could do that for you, too. “But that sounds great. I’d love to.” 

He watched you gather your things, looking up at him from the floor, chatting away about a couple that had just booked you for their wedding. Heart thumping wildly in his chest, Bucky realized that this was different than it had been with Pam. At the party, in the library, he’d noticed his own nerves, tried to fight them for the sake of spending the afternoon with a pretty woman -- but now? 

Now he had made a pretty, kind woman laugh until she felt better; now he had asked _her_ out. Now he had done something simple, something for him, something that made his chest feel lighter and looser and a smile come easy to his face. It felt _good_. And he decided that he would ask for Pam’s number, send her an apology, give her a proper explanation. He’d treat you to coffee, and maybe, sooner or later, help you bake a cake.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An early-morning phone call leads to an unexpected weekend trip for you and Bucky. Submission for @star-spangled-bingo 2020. Square filled is "getting lost together."

Sometimes, when Bucky dreamt of the desert, it was peaceful.

The past would touch him gently, soft as a lover, and he could sink into his thin pillows, sprawled out on his belly, just the way he liked to sleep, but couldn’t, on the narrow army cots or the unyielding earth. He would think about Steve, burnt-gold hair and laughing smile, head tipped back to the sun as he read one of Sharon’s letters aloud. As they’d spun out the future and tasted pure hope. 

In the pale light of a shy, pale blue late morning, he was stirred from one such dream by the chirping of his phone. Blearily, shifting to his side, Bucky glanced down at the screen -- a picture of his mom smiled back up at him from underneath an email notification from _you_. 

“ _Can I give you a call_?” 

Simple, to the point. Bucky felt a small tendril of unease in his belly, but he managed to sit up and fire off a “ _sure_.” 

As he waited for the phone to ring, he rubbed one hand down the side of his face, adjusted the blankets about him. Nearly a month had passed since the bake sale, and though he’d managed to call Pam and apologize for the incident in the café, he hadn’t found the certainty and confidence he needed to reach out to you more directly. Three hours he’d spent in that restaurant with you, talking you through the Wreck of the Orange Cake, encouraging your efforts and offering as many baking tips as he could think of. He’d laughed, made you laugh, bought four cups of coffee and even talked about his mother, a little. 

He wouldn’t talk about his mom to anyone. Not even Steve.

But there was something in your air, something in your approach, that made him feel so _safe_.

Not safe enough, it seemed, to pluck up the courage to call you back. 

Nerves trickled through him and gave rise to faint nausea as his ringtone began. Fingers fumbling wildly on the screen, he willed himself to remain calm at the first cool unfurling of your voice. “Good morning,” you said. “I didn’t wake you?” 

There was something strange about your voice -- nasally, thick. As though you’d been crying. Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Uh, no, you’re good,” he mumbled. _Good, good, so good. So lovely._ “Is everything okay?” 

“Well, that’s hard to answer.” You cleared your throat. “I...I need to ask you a favour, Bucky, and this is kind of...well, it’s heavy. Really heavy. Are you okay to hear it?” 

A deep breath. “Sure.” He was _lying_ , but couldn’t stand the thought that something was wrong with you, hurting you. He needed to know; to help if he could. “Go ahead,” he said softly. “It’s okay.” 

What was that fierce protectiveness rising up in him? Where had it come from? What did it mean? And why did the tremble in your voice make him think of snow, of thin, breakable ice? Cold water underneath? 

“Okay.” You exhaled, a short puff of air, and Bucky realized with a jolt that, somehow, he could see your face when you did it. When had you taken up so much room in his imagination? “It’s like this...you know that wedding I was telling you about? The September one? Niamh and Emma.” 

That wedding had dominated the conversation for nearly a full hour; you were so excited about the plans, the beach setting, the soft, tropical colour scheme. He even had a page in a notebook dedicated to ideas for their cake: an elegant confection studded with edible shells. “Things are changing,” you said. “The wedding is being moved up. To this weekend.” 

Dread pooled, thick and heady, in the pit of his stomach. “W-why?” 

“Oh, Bucky.” 

Niamh’s mother was sick, you explained. Terminally ill. The diagnosis had come as a shock, and the couple had decided to move up their wedding to late spring in order to be sure she could actually attend. “It’s so sad, Bucky,” you sniffed. “They’re being so strong, and Kathy is just...amazing, but it’s just so sad. She’s...she’s _dying_.” 

Bucky swallowed, wished he could be there to hold you -- wished that the relationship between you was better defined, so that he could understand if that was acceptable at all. “I’m so sorry. How can I help?”

Couldn’t cure her, couldn’t fix this -- he hadn’t before, the last mother who’d lay dying -- but he could _help_. Could offer himself. For you. “What do you need, sweetheart?” he asked softly, hoping it wasn’t too forward. “What can I do?” 

“I need you.” 

He closed his eyes, leaned into the words. Let them touch him gently, envelope him. “Wanna come over? We can talk about it. I’ll make you breakfast.” 

A watery laugh, and Bucky finally smiled. “Come over, sweetheart,” he said gently. “Let me help.” 

* * *

You walked into his apartment with a wad of tissues in hand, makeup streaked down your cheeks, and Bucky’s heart squeezed tight at the need to wrap his arms around you. Instead, he steered you towards a plate of powdered sugar-covered waffles. “They’re famous,” he said, nudging the bottle of maple syrup closer to your wrist and spreading Nutella over his own. “I hope you like them.”

A flimsy smile is all you could muster, but you let him take the bag from your shoulder, before taking a bite. “Oh, wow,” you breathed, grinning brightly now. “That’s delicious. You’re a genius.” 

“Thanks,” he said, shifting in his seat, surreptitiously glancing around the apartment to make sure he’d managed to tidy everything away. The space looked clean, certainly, but plain. Temporary. Over thirty years old and living above his best friend’s garage, sleeping on a pull-out sofa -- but you didn’t seem to be looking at any of that. In fact, you weren’t looking anywhere but at him. 

“You’re a good friend, Bucky,” you said softly. “I appreciate this so much.” Carefully, gently, your hand covered his, and Bucky shivered. 

A companionable kind of silence settled over the apartment as you both continued to eat. It was reassuring to realize that the two of you could spend this kind of time together, neither feeling the need to fill the space. It was in stark contrast to the three-hour conversation after the bake sale, and yet Bucky felt just as engaged, invested. And valued. 

But by the time you’d finished, laying your fork neatly across the syrupy plate, there was no more room for distraction. 

“So,” you said, taking a deep breath. “The wedding is happening this weekend. Sunday afternoon.” 

Just a few days away, really. Nowhere near enough time for Bucky to execute the original design he had come up with alongside the brides-to-be. He sank back into his chair, deflated. “I know,” you gave him a soft smile. “I understand. I’m disappointed, too. The girls are, and Kathy is, but honestly, we can still make this a beautiful, memorable wedding. For all of them.” 

"We?”

Were you aware of how cute you were when you bit your lip? Bucky tried not to smile; it certainly wasn’t the time. “Yeah, I...I was hoping, and so were they, I mean...I should’ve asked, but…”

Niamh and Emma still wanted him to make a wedding cake. They had loved the samples he provided, and were still eager to support a local small business owner. However, the design had changed. “Something simple,” you explained. “Still a three-tier cake, maybe some lemon incorporated someway, but they’re not completely committed to that. But sunflowers. They want sunflowers.” 

At your simple prompts, the cake began to take shape in his mind. White, smooth frosting; he could use _real_ sunflowers, couldn’t he? Maybe some yellow ribbon framing each tier. “They’re Kathy’s favourite flower,” you said, in a small voice, and suddenly, Bucky didn’t care, he didn’t care if this was ill-defined, if he had sat across from Pam and thought she was pretty -- he stood, took one step past the rickety card table, and you met him. Melting into his embrace, burying your face into his shoulder. “She’s dying, Bucky, and all she wants is to see her daughter get married, and I...it hurts _so much_.” 

Oh, he knew. He knew the kind of soul-deep pain Niamh must be going through; knew the language of a dying mother’s quiet goodbye. He’d heard it himself. But he had no desire to muddy this moment with his own history. So he wrapped you in his arms and let you cry against him, while tears stroked his own face, dripped from the tip of his nose and found a soft, safe home on the crown of your head. 

And after, when you had cried yourself out, he sketched the sunflower cake for you, and fed you a pretty dream of lemon chiffon cake; bright raspberry jam. Of ribbon the colour of a sunbeam; of the smile on Kathy’s face. The memory the two of you could build for this poor, sad family.

“We can give them a happy day,” you said, voice raspy from crying and silence. Hand sliding over his again, and this time, Bucky flipped his hand, held yours, too. Smiled at the way the word “ _we_ ” fit in your mouth. 

* * *

The wedding day came with a soft brush of sunshine, nothing so blazing and forward as late spring usually offered, but Bucky couldn’t help but find that fitting. There was a gravity to it, a sense of reticence. He dressed carefully in the dim light of his apartment, early in the morning. Niamh and Emma had invited him to stay for the ceremony and the reception -- a simple, small affair nothing like the beach festival they had planned. 

_“We trust you, Cupcake Guy,_ ” Emma had texted two nights before, followed by an endearing string of heart-emojis and a sunflower. It touched him that, even in the midst of that heartbreak, that pain, Emma could still reach out and think of him.

Grabbing his wallet, phone, and keys, Bucky hesitated on the threshold of his apartment for a moment. The outfit he’d built with Sharon’s help last night looked fine, though he’d agonized about whether or not it was too casual. “Smart casual,” she’d reassured him, urging him into a pair of tan chinos and a navy button-down. “Wear those white sneakers of Steve’s, and you’ll be fine. Perfect for a weekend wedding.” 

There was, however, the small matter of his _hair._ A peek in the bathroom mirror had him hesitating. It didn’t quite brush the collar of the shirt, but those longer pieces kept falling into his eyes. He sighed, leaning over the sink. How many months since his last trim? And the scruff growing on his chin and cheeks -- how attractive could that be? He looked unpolished, unkempt -- as though he were playing dress-up. 

Which, considering the way Sharon had flitted around and ordered him about last night, maybe he was. 

“Screw it,” he said, digging in the medicine cabinet for a hair tie. He gathered it up in a familiar, easy bun. He wore it mainly when baking, but as he tilted his head back and forth in the mirror, standing back a little to get as thorough a glimpse as he could -- Bucky smiled. 

Damn. 

He actually looked _good_. 

A chirp from his phone -- you were ready. 

Confidence surging, sweet as sugar, Bucky grabbed his stuff and headed down to the garage, to the van you’d rented. The wedding cake and flowers were carefully secured in the back, and in the front, he’d already placed a paper bag filled with homemade doughnuts. 

It was two hours’ drive to the wedding venue. 

Another text, and Bucky keyed your address into the GPS. Wouldn’t do to be late picking you up. 

* * *

“I’m going to go get changed,” you whispered, brushing your hand gently against his shoulder. “Save me a seat?”

So far, the day had been a collision of rich sensory experiences; stress hadn’t even found time to rest on Bucky’s shoulders -- you’d ushered him through every step with grace and kindness. For their part, Niamh and Emma were as calm as could be expected, both prone to teary moments, but also so assured in their restructured plans that absolutely nothing bothered them. 

It had taken him nearly a full hour to have the dessert table arranged. Guests had brought their own contributions, and the meal would be provided by the rustic resort. He checked his watch -- forty minutes to go. 

He thumbed out a quick message to Steve, letting him know things had gone well; and then scrolled through his emails: a mom looking to arrange something for her daughter’s sweet sixteen next month; a couple of spam messages; confirmation that his new order of business cards were ready for shipment. 

And a text from Pam. 

“ _Send me a pic of the cake, pls!_ ”

Bucky smiled, and chose one from his camera roll. The whole table looked wonderful, but the cake just might’ve been the prettiest thing he’d ever made -- unicorn cupcakes included. He chose a shot that you had taken -- a perfect angle, lighting. Flowers and leaves so artfully arranged, with a sweet _Mrs and Mrs_ sign in pale gold sitting next to the cake. 

Within two minutes, Pam was back -- compliments and gushing and a selfie of her feet in a tub of soapy water. _“Pedicure day,_ ” she texted. 

Bucky shifted in his seat at that. It seemed an odd turn for the conversation to take, but he wasn’t going to complain. After a lengthy phone conversation with her two weeks ago, he’d finally gotten everything sorted out. Explained away the incident in the café as a combination of a lack of sleep and the stress of getting a new business off the ground. Subtly, he’d alluded to his time in the military, too, and Pam had immediately forgiven him. 

Since then, there were semi-regular texting conversations. Bucky enjoyed having someone other than Steve and Sharon to talk to about grown-up things, though Ava and Ollie were still his favourite conversationalists -- and taste-testers. Seeing Pam’s name, though, pop up frequently on his phone screen was something of a comfort, a reassurance that he was _adapting_ , as his therapist put it, to a reclaimed adulthood. A reclaimed _life_. 

“ _How does my boss look?_ ” Pam asked. 

He grinned at that -- he’d been a little surprised to see you waiting on the curb wearing leggings and a sweatshirt, two bag in hand, but then you’d explained, breathlessly, before tucking into a doughnut, that it was easier for you to run around in sneakers and casual clothes until right before the wedding. “And these girls are so laid-back,” you said, before letting loose an appreciative sound at another bit of the doughnut -- a sound that made Bucky blush. 

Pam made him promise to send a picture, since you wouldn’t, she wrote. He was just typing out a “ _sure"_ when the scent of your perfume had him turning, standing, mouth going slack at the sight of you -- 

Softer, polished. Draped in rose-gold lace, something pink and sparkly on your ears, your wrists. A cream-coloured purse on one shoulder, and an uncertain smile on your lips. Bucky swallowed thickly, suddenly unsure how to speak to this version of you -- less business-like than you’d been at Riley’s birthday party, and yet...

This was the quietest part of you, he thought. The breath between dream and waking; a surrender; vulnerability. Tears sparkling in your eyes and you had dressed yourself in poetry and come to have your heart broken, and mended. And, he realized, grasping for his senses, you had chosen to sit with him.

“You look beautiful,” he said quietly, offering his hand. Didn’t quite understand why he did that -- it wasn’t a long trip from the aisle’s edge to the folding chair beside him, but there was a tender elegance to the gesture, one that warmed him from the inside out. Your hand settled neat and safe into his, and Bucky wondered if the same shocks traced up your spine, too. 

“Wait,” he said hoarsely, in the split-second before you’d sat down. “I have to take a picture.” 

Your brow furrowed in faint, but not uncomfortable, confusion. 

“Pam wants a picture of your outfit,” he explained, fumbling with his phone. 

In the split second before he asked you to a smile, he caught a trace of sadness there, a downturn of your pretty mouth, quickly reshaped into a shining beam. He smiled wistfully back at you; must be worry over the brides. Kathy, Niamh’s mother. Nothing else could make you so sad, he thought. 

And yet he didn’t miss the way you slid past his offered hand, the way you shifted so your thighs didn’t dare touch his. 

* * *

Emma cried in his arms over the beautiful cake, and Bucky waited to be rescued. Instead, her new wife wrapped her arms around him and pressed him closer still, tangling him in a cloud of sweet perfume and the raspberry jam still on her cheek from where Emma had nudged in their first slice. “Thank you so much,” she said, voice shaking with the weight of mingled joy and grief. “You’re amazing.” 

“You’re welcome,” he said awkwardly, patting her on the back as they pulled apart. “I’m glad you like it.” 

“More than like it.” Emma grabbed his hand, squeezed it tightly, gazing up at him with bright, earnest blue eyes. He thought of Steve, and suppressed a smile. “Truly, James. It’s the most wonderful thing -- better than we could have imagined. We love it.” 

Secondhand happiness swelled deep inside him, and Bucky realized _why_ this job meant so much to him. It was more than simply working with his hands, more than feeling connected with his mother through her recipes -- it was bringing joy. Celebration. Cakes and cookies and cupcakes and the best days of peoples’ lives. 

And though the tears in Emma’s eyes were for far more than the joy of marrying her love, Bucky understood that he had done just a little -- in eggs and sugar and sunflowers -- to make her happy. To temper the heartbreak with something sweet, something pretty. 

_He_ had done that. 

A few more hugs, some gushing from a bridesmaid who had _never_ , _ever_ tasted anything so wonderful, and Bucky had managed to grab two more flutes of sparkling cider, navigate his way through the busy crowd of friends and family -- not many in number, necessarily, but so eager to be close to each other today that there was hardly any breathing room left -- to try and find you. 

The open, sloping lawn behind the resort led down a winding river, dark ribbon slicing through the earth. On the opposite bank, a thick expanse of forest climbed right to the water’s edge, reminding Bucky that they were truly in the woods. 

He rather liked the quiet. 

Carefully, he eased his way down the hill, realizing too late that he’d gotten grass stains on Steve’s pristine white sneakers. But that didn’t matter, not when he could see the rosy lace of your dress drifting slightly in the late evening breeze, as you stood by the river’s edge, arms wrapped around yourself and head bowed. For a split second, he considered _not_ interrupting you, not when you seemed so lost in thought, but then you turned. 

“Bucky.” 

It was soft, and lovely, and Bucky wanted to live in the pretty space between syllables. The way you smiled his name. “Here,” he said, reaching out for one of the flutes. “Thought you might be up there celebrating.” 

A wobbling smile. “I feel odd,” you admitted, pressing out a strange smile. “Normally, this is the best part of any party that I plan. Just...enjoying it, watching other people enjoy their special day. But this -- this is different.” You turn back towards the river, taking a sip of cider. “Their mother is dying, Bucky. And somehow they all found the strength to smile today. To celebrate.” 

Memory grazed him, and it was cold. Bucky closed his eyes as the cider slid down his throat, and thought of his own mother. Looking small and white and frightened in a hospital bed. He opened his mouth to tell you this, to let you hold a tender, raw part of him, but you beat him to the punch: “Pam is really nice, you know. A sweetheart. I love working with her.” 

Bucky blinked, disoriented by the abrupt change of subject. “Um, yeah, she’s really nice,” he agreed, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling sour and not knowing why at the way you turned back to the river. 

With those words, and the stiffening of your shoulders, Bucky felt at once, somehow, that he no longer belonged there. As though that quiet place was for you and you alone, and he was nothing more than a clumsy intruder. It was the same feeling he got on the nights Sharon would invite him down for dinner, and he’d step into the dining room to see Steve with his wife and kids around the table, laughing at something and holding joy between them. 

Not for the first time, standing there, cider in hand and contentment fraying at the edges, Bucky wondered what missteps he had taken, how he had gone wrong. “I’m gonna go and get something to eat,” he said cagily, hoping you would ask him to stay, but not expecting anything. “Are you hungry?” 

"No, thanks. Have fun. I was thinking we should probably head out around nineish?” 

“Yeah, sounds good.” 

But it didn’t. Not at all. 

Bruised disappointment accompanied him all the way back up the hill, to the clearing in front of a row of rustic cabins -- decorated with twinkly lights and white balloons, and happy, happy faces. Bucky slid into a free chair and watched Emma and Niamh take their first dance to a smooth, artful rendition of _How Deep Is Your Love?_ performed by a childhood friend. 

Bucky tipped back the flute and finished off the sparkling cider, willing his gaze not to drift down to the river, instead, focusing on the sweetness of the wedding ceremony, the beauty of the day. He hadn’t been to many weddings, himself. Steve and Sharon’s, of course, and a few cousins’. He’d been a ring-bearer in his uncle’s first and third weddings. Other than that, though, his knowledge was limited to movies and TV shows, and he’d never given any thought to what his own might be like. 

As if that was happening. 

He glanced over: you were still standing by the river, holding yourself tight, glass still in hand and head tilted down. “Mind if I sit, dear?” 

The voice, limp and sweet, shook Bucky from his thoughts, and he did an awkward half-stand to pull out a chair for a short, plump woman who could only be Niamh’s mother; they had the same smile. “Thank you,” she said, easing herself down while smoothing down the fuschia skirt of her dress. “I appreciate that, you sweetheart.” 

“Not a problem, ma’am.” Bucky pushed back an arrangement of sunflowers so that she’d be better able to see the dancefloor. “Are you having a nice time?” 

He winced; what a stupid thing to ask a dying woman. 

Niamh’s mother -- _Kathy_ , the name floated back to him -- smiled, sweeping a few locks of silver hair from her forehead. “I am, thank you. It was a beautiful day. My girls are married, the food is good, and I’m a happy mama.” 

It was that simple. Bucky smiled wanly at her, struggling for words. How did he explain who he was? Did that matter? Introductions were important at larger weddings, as people tried to navigate distant connections, but he was an interloper here, honestly, at this intimate celebration. He’d only made the damn cake. 

“I know who you are,” Kathy said softly, taking his hand. His _left_ hand. It had been so long since someone had touched that hand besides physical therapists and nurses. Even Ava and Oliver knew to reach for his right hand when they wanted to hold onto him. “I want to say thank you. You made this day beautiful. You and that brilliant wedding planner.” 

Emotion crawled up his throat, slick and heavy, and Bucky tried to speak, tried to say something, but she knew. “I’m so grateful to you both.” Her gaze drifted back to the dance floor, to where her girls held each other tightly, swaying to the song. “They’re going to have a lot of pain to hold onto. I hope the memory of today makes that a little lighter to carry.” 

“The good memories help,” Bucky blurted, spilling his pain into a mother’s ear, the words that had bound up so tightly inside him, choking him so steadily for nearly ten years now. “They do.” 

_Talk to me, dear_ , she told him, and Bucky let it out. Let it take dark, horrible shape in front of them, the way it had felt to lose his mother, to go to war in a world without her in it. To feel the heat of the explosion _melt_ his skin; to wake up frightened and alone in a hospital bed and remember, over and over again, in broken-glass waves, that his mom wasn’t coming to help him, couldn’t come. That the world didn’t hold her anymore, and now who would hold him? 

Kathy let him talk, let him squeeze her hand and cry for everything, in hot, unbidden tears. And he realized then that, as good as the support groups had been, as wonderful as his therapist was, there was nothing like this. Nothing like lightening his soul in a mother’s embrace, even if she wasn’t his. He told her about you, about baking, about little Riley and her father so far away; he told her about the odd date with Pam and how pretty you looked in your dress. How he was afraid and uncertain and couldn’t sleep most nights, but when he was with you, he could _breathe_. 

And Kathy nodded. Listening. Asking questions in all the right places. Rubbing the back of his hand and Bucky knew again and again, the searing strength of women. “I-I’m sorry,” he said abruptly, horrified at what he’d just done. Monopolized the attention of a terminally-ill woman at her daughter’s wedding, weeping like a child because he missed his mom, because he didn’t understand why he felt the way he did about you, and about Pam. How _could_ he?

“Don’t be sorry,” Kathy said, soothingly, reaching over to brush his hair from his hair from his eyes where it had come loose from his bun. “You’ve got a lot on your plate and even more on your heart, dear. I can be your mother for a few minutes, give you some mama advice. How does that sound?”

_Craven_ , and little-boyish, but he’d take it. 

When Kathy spoke, it was like Winnie Barnes had opened her mouth. She told him to be honest with you, but to build some more experiences, too. To let you know, not of his confusion necessarily, but certainly of some of his pain. To talk to Pam, to figure out what he wanted. What _she_ wanted. 

To be honest with the people he cared for, and to be honest with himself. 

Bucky sank into the warm embrace of her advice, her wisdom, and resolved that, on the drive home, he _would_ be honest, would tell you about his mother, about him. Would ask you out for another coffee and praise your work here today. 

He would tell you the truth. About the sparks under his skin, the nerves in his belly. The way you calmed him, made him hope for something better. 

And with that intention, bright within him, Bucky found the courage to lean over and kiss Kathy on the cheek, tell her she looked lovely. Tell her she should be so proud of her girls. He thanked her, thanked her for being his mother, even in this small, flickering space. 

* * *

Nearly thirty minutes into the drive home, you were asleep, and Bucky was lost. 

No touching moment of honesty tonight, that was for sure. 

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, glancing over to see you snuggled against your folded hoodie, trapped between your shoulder and the window. Outside, the wooded road seemed impossibly, deeply dark, and a trickle of panic worked its way into his veins. When had he taken a wrong turn? The road leading out from the secluded forest resort was winding, and led to a fork followed by a sharp S-turn, but…

Worry gave rise to snappish frustration, and Bucky began punching at the buttons of the GPS, but it kept giving him an error message back. _Perfect_. 

Should he wake you? You were certainly more familiar with the area, but you’d also been so quiet in the last moments of the reception, on the way to the van, waving goodbye with a weak smile. He hated to disturb you, much as he’d hoped to talk. 

"Damn it,” he breathed, slowing down to reassess. No need to panic. No need to spiral. It was fine. This was manageable. Carefully, he slowed down and pulled over to the shoulder, willing himself not to think about the sharp descent beyond the guard rail. Just a minute to check his phone -- 

Which was out of service. 

“Bucky?” Beside him, you shifted, warm breath smelling faintly of the drink you hadn’t finished, ink on your fingertips and bangles jingling lightly. All of his senses were heightened right now, why? Why was he so...what was…

“Hey, hey,” you said softly, hand sliding over his on the steering wheel. “Is everything okay? Did something happen?”

“We’re lost,” he croaked. “I may have taken a wrong turn. I-I’m so sorry.” 

Calmly, you touched him, spoke to him, voice filling the cab of the van and Bucky leaned into it, willed the guilt to stay swallowed and the panic to abate. A plan was formed, and it sounded okay. You explained that there were probably spare cabins back at the resort, and that it might make more sense, if he didn’t mind, to wait until morning to try and get back home. “You can call anyone you need to once we get back there, Bucky, does that sound okay?” you asked. “We’re lost, and that’s okay. It’s not your fault. These roads are hard enough to navigate during the day, let alone at night. But it might be safer to go back now, huh? If you need to call your friends, or Pam, or anyone.” 

“What?” Confused, he turned to look at you. “Why would Pam need to know?” 

Your mouth flattened, brow furrowing, but he didn’t have time, he had to make sure you were okay, had to make sure you were safe. Being on a road like this in the dark? Not knowing where he was? That wasn’t safe, and it wasn’t good, and he needed...he needed -- 

“Bucky, can you take a deep breath for me? In and out?” 

In the soft anchor of your words, your advice, Bucky breathed, in and out, over and over again, slow and steady, holding it gently, and unravelling his own panic. Quietly, you explained to him your suggestion again, and he realized just how _good_ it sounded. A long week, tense in his preparations for the cake; the confusion over Pam, over you, and his interaction with Kathy -- he just wanted to sleep. Just sleep. Just _rest_. 

“Okay,” he said. “I’m good. Let me just find a good spot to turn around.” 

The drive back seemed shorter, with you awake and chatting quietly to him about inane, simple things. Easy conversation. His heart-rate slowed, but for the frequent little jolts of butterflies as he glanced over to see the way you wore moonlight, and before he knew it, he was easing the van back into the resort’s parking lot, pulling the keys from the ignition with a deep, belly-wrenched sigh. 

“I’m sorry.” His voice was heavy, his soul weighed even more. “I’m just..sometimes I can...get a little out of hand.” 

“There’s no shame in worrying, Bucky,” you said, yawning. “Seriously. You handled it well. We solved it together, right?” 

_Together_. 

“Let’s go see about getting some rooms.” 

He followed you up the path, realizing that he needed to get out of these damn pants, and maybe into a warm shower. It was all he could do to stay awake as you negotiated with pimply Stan up at the front desk, sinking into a squishy leather armchair by the fireplace. Rubbed a hand down the length of his face, feeling the scratch of his stubble and somehow finding himself comforted by that sound. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, he could sleep right here, you could find a room, he didn’t mind -- 

“Hey, sleepyhead.” You smiled down at him, standing behind the chair so that to him, you were the sky, some sweet kind of heaven up above. “So, here’s the thing. You don’t mind sharing a cabin, do you?” 

He was too tired to complain, not that he would anyway -- the prospect of sharing a space with you was inviting, a lovely prospect. Biddable as a small, sleepy child, he followed you back out into the cool spring night, eyes sliding over the balloons and lights leftover from the reception, simply trying to focus on following the blush lace of your dress, the winking gold at your wrists, as you wove your way down the path, stopping in front of one of the smallest cabins. 

It had a red door. 

Bucky liked that. 

But behind that red door was a small, small space; designed for intimacy far more sure and certain than whatever was strung between his heart and yours. Bucky registered, flushing, suddenly awkward, mortified, and yet also, shamefully, electrified, that the furnishings were sparse, very sparse: a table smaller than the one in his own kitchen; a dresser; and, looking warm and welcoming under a bright blue quilt, a double bed. 

And nothing else. 


	4. Four

Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually shared a bed with someone. Sex hadn’t been on his mind since the accident, since the hospital. Since the desert. Back then, he’d lie awake and think about how it felt to have someone kiss his skin, to whisper sweet words into his ear, to touch him reverently, as though he were a special thing. 

But even that seemed less intimate than facing you, a bed in between.

You fiddled with the bracelets at your wrist, avoiding his eye. “This was the only cabin they had left,” you whispered. “I can...maybe I can…”

Nerves flickered in his stomach, and Bucky wanted nothing more than to run away, because sleep was not his friend, and there would be no reprieve in this empty kitchen -- a stove top, a mini fridge, and a sink. He couldn’t get up to bake, to clear his mind. And if he had a nightmare, with you there…

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he blurted, because he had to say _something_. He knew, though, that was a bad idea. His arm and shoulder would be killing him tomorrow morning, and likely for the rest of the week, if he were to lay down on the hardwood -- even on the thick, braided rug at the foot of the bed. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep there -- he was a soldier, he’d slept in more uncomfortable places -- but the prospect of pain was enough to give him pause. 

“No,” you said firmly. “That’s not fair. I had a nap in the van, I’ll just sit up and get some work done on my phone, you get some sleep.” 

“Come on, sweetheart” -- it was a mark of how sleepy he was, truly, that the endearment slipped out, slurring a little at the edges -- “it’s fine. You need your sleep. Just toss me a pillow and I’ll see if there’s an extra blanket around here somewhere.” 

“And what’s sleeping on the floor going to do your back, huh?” you asked, hands on your hips, jewellery jangling with the movement. Bucky tried to suppress a chuckle at your sudden indignance. “It’s not healthy. No, we’ll...I’ll go back to the front desk, maybe I can room with one of the guests. I met a few of them.” 

“Did you talk to them enough to crawl into bed beside them?” Bucky grinned. “It’s okay. I’m fine, I’ve slept in worse places.” 

He was trying to be reassuring, but that didn’t stop you from wringing your hands, looking wildly around the small room as though expecting another bed to fold right out of the wall. “If it...I’d say we should just…”

“Share?” 

The word seemed to shatter, the moment it had slid from his mouth. Splitting into a thousand tiny, sharp fractals, cutting the both of you. Cutting the moment, the calm. Your lips parted, but no sound came out, and Bucky flushed a deep, warm pink, so hot he could feel it, sweat breaking out on his brow as he realized you _might_ not have been about to suggest that. 

"What would Pam think?” you asked, voice so quiet he almost missed it. “We’d have to tell her.” 

He started at that, eyes shooting up to meet yours. “Why would we have to tell Pam?” 

“Because...because you’re dating.” 

It was a record-scratch moment, he thought inanely -- so real he could almost hear it. Above the pounding in his ears, the strange buzzing in his veins. Bucky opened his mouth, found it too dry to speak, and then began to cough, violently. “Oh my gosh,” you said, hurrying around the bed to pat him on the back. “Bucky -- Bucky are you alright?” 

Mortified, he cleared his throat, summoning a flimsy smile. “Uh, yeah, I just didn’t expect that. Did, um, did Pam tell you we were together?” 

Oh, God -- _were_ they together? Had he missed the signs? Misread them? What must you think of him? What must _Pam_ think of him? 

You chewed on your lip, wrapped your arms around yourself. Bucky felt a swoop of guilt, uncertainty -- events coming to rest neatly and clearly in his head. He’d taken a picture of you for Pam; after the three hour coffee date, he’d asked you for _her_ number. He hadn’t had to ask for yours; he had your card. And yet, in the weeks since, you’d limited yourself to the less-personal email. 

All at once, it came to him: what Kathy had hinted at during the reception, the _honesty_ he needed. Not just honesty with you, with Pam, but with himself. He liked Pam well enough: she was nice, pretty. Easy to talk to. 

But you? 

The thought of hurting you now was almost more than he could handle -- the thought that he’d misled you, wasted time, while he dithered about feelings he couldn’t even really understand. He raked one hand through his hair, finally loosening his bun -- he just wanted to _bake_ something. To make something sweeter than he felt. 

“No, she didn’t tell me,” you said quietly. “But I put two and two together, you know?”

“We’re not though.” Bucky wanted to laugh, he wanted to be free to just _tell_ you. “We’re not together.” 

You blinked. Three times. Bucky counted each one, looked for hope in the space between. “Not together,” you repeated. “You’re not dating?” 

“Nope.” 

A deep, puffing exhale, and you sank onto the bed, looking up at him with faint confusion and embarrassment. “I shouldn’t have assumed, I guess,” you said softly.

Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets, willing his racing heart to slow, to let him calm down. To let him think. What did your reaction mean? 

He licked his lips, trying to find the words, trying to touch the feeling. A heavy fog had settled over his mind, and he recognized it for what it was. A familiar, cruel old friend, one that stole his breath and made him shake; that rushing surge of tangled emotions that had you crawling over the bed, urging him to sit down, to breathe with you, to let you help. A hand on his shoulder, soft words in his ear; somehow, despite your touches and your tenderness, Bucky didn’t feel weak. Didn’t feel less-than. He felt held. 

“Hey,” you said calmly. “You okay, Bucky?” 

Years ago, his first therapist, Gina, had taught him to anchor himself to present moments by his senses. “Building the real picture,” she’d called it. His brain had become conditioned to only see threats; his senses heightened, enhanced almost, to spot danger. When he was in situations that activated the old response that had accompanied him through warzones, even if he was safe and sound in a grocery store or his own bedroom, his body was so used to the memory of that trauma, that fear, that panic -- he needed to _remind_ himself where he was. What was going on. 

He did that now. 

On the air, perfume floated sweet and flowery; underneath his hands, the soft, well-washed surface of the quilt. He could hear your breathing, and the ticking of a clock on the far wall, above a small woodstove. Not cold enough for a fire, but he imagined the crackling, the warmth. The crush of a toasted marshmallow between his teeth -- no, no keep it real. Keep it present. What could he taste? Sparkling cider and the soft lemon of the wedding cake.

What could he see? 

You. Face turned to his, biting your lip, eye makeup smudged just slightly. A sheen of sweat on your forehead, from the chaos of the evening so far. 

Limbs melting back into the softness of the bed, Bucky shivered when your fingers brushed his hand. His left hand. You didn’t know, there was no way for you to know, and that was fine, that was good, because your hands fit perfectly around his, and you were drawing it to your lap, and he was _home_. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at his knees. “It’s...I, um, I have…” 

The letters had never felt right on his tongue. Gina, and then later, Maria, were both good at reminding him that having those letters meant he had access to resources, a language that others could comprehend. But he didn’t have to _be_ those four letters. 

“It’s okay.” Your fingers shifted against his hand, and Bucky felt the pretty velvet of your touch streaking soft and sweet through every scar, all the way up to his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s been a long, emotional day for everyone.”

The rose-gold lace of your dress looked delicate and summery, a strange contrast to the pants Sharon had all but forced him into. _Sharon_ . Should he call Steve? Let him know he wasn’t coming home? But how would that look to you? Calling home to his _parents_ , like some kid, like a child who couldn’t be trusted with his own time, left alone with a girl in a room. 

“Bucky,” you said, voice calm and fluttering against his ear. “Are you okay to share the bed? It doesn’t mean anything, but I really hate the thought of you on the floor.” 

_It doesn’t mean anything_. Was he still flickering with panic, or was there an undercurrent of something else in your voice? 

He knew what he was risking. Sleeping in an unfamiliar place already posed enough risks. If he were to wake up from a nightmare in a room he didn’t recognize, it was possible that his anxiety could spike even higher and more intensely. But he was so damn tired, just wanted to sleep, to feel your hand on his again, and hear what your voice sounded like first thing in the morning, fresh from dreams. “Um, yeah,” he said, deciding to just hope for the best and roll to the floor if he woke up. “Are...are you?”

A careful nod, and you squeezed his hand. “It’ll be okay. Is there anyone you should call?”

No, but there were practicalities to consider. You’d left your bag in the van; Bucky awkwardly offered to go get it, stepping out into the cool, crisp night with a deep breath. It was going to be fine. He could handle it. A glance down at his watch, and he realized Steve might already be in bed, but something in him wanted to hear his voice, wanted a second confirmation that it was going to be okay. 

_Code Blue_ , he texted. 

Immediately, his phone lit up and began ringing. 

“Buck? You good?” 

He winced at the concern in Steve’s voice. _Code Blue_ was a middle of the road kind of distress. No threat to life or limb, but just a check-in. An anchoring. “Yeah, man. I just...I’m not coming home tonight,” he said, words rushing. “We got lost leaving the resort, so we just turned around and came back. We’re staying the night.” 

There was a moment of shocked silence. Bucky _knew_ it was shocked, because he knew Steve, and he knew that Steve was definitely doing the math right now. Since the last time Bucky had spent the night with a woman, the last time he hadn’t come home. 

Bucky, for the life of him, couldn’t remember. 

“You’re both safe, though, right?” He heard a faint scrape in the background, and pictured Steve rubbing his hand over his beard. A shifting, rustling of blankets. “Bucky?”

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, we’re both safe. Just tired.” 

“Are you in the same room?”

“The same _bed._ ”

Another silence, this one punctuated by a loud crow of laughter that had Bucky wishing he’d never dialled the number and Sharon shushing in the background. “Good job, man.” 

“No, Steve, it’s not.” Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to take deep, even breaths. “What if I -- what if I have a nightmare?” 

“You told me they were getting better.” 

And in many ways, they were. No longer did he wake up screaming, or thrashing. He hadn’t broken anything in months. But the prospect of hurting you, frightening you -- he just couldn’t bear it. “They are. I’m just...I’m nervous.” 

“Nervous about nightmares or because you really like her?” 

He flushed, even though Steve wasn’t there to see it. “I --”

“Don’t even try me, Buck. I’ve seen the way your eyes go all gooey when she emails you.” 

“They don’t go _gooey_.” 

“Do too.” 

“Shut up.” 

“You first. Look, Bucky, you’re going to be fine. Do your breathing, some try some visualization exercises to get you to fall asleep. And relax. You’re not going to hurt her. And if you do wake up, there’s a bathroom, right? Just go in there and calm yourself down, call me if you have to, okay?” 

How many times had they had this same conversation? Over the phone, through texts, sometimes in person. When Bucky had first moved back to town and stayed in the guest room down in the basement, while some college kid finished out the semester in the apartment, Steve would come down at night to talk about _his_ nightmares, to pull a Code Blue himself. Sometimes a Code Red. 

Steve walked him through a few breathing exercises, and they hung up, Bucky promising to text in the morning and let him know how it had gone. “Goodnight, punk,” Bucky said quietly. 

Around him, the night air seemed to compress and expand in a strange rhythm. The warm, lemony glow of lights from the surrounding cabins was tender, soft. Homey, in an odd way, since he had never been there before. A glance over his shoulder -- behind that red door, you were waiting for him. 

It had been a long, long time since somebody had waited at home for him. 

* * *

The sound of rushing water coming from the bathroom completely froze him in the doorway when he’d returned, your bag in hand. Were you -- were you taking a shower? His mouth went dry, and his fingers clenched on the doorknob. This was too much. Too much -- 

“Hey, Bucky. Thank you.” 

Something electric passed between his hand and yours as you reached for the bag, skin brushing his lightly, and Bucky swallowed to see your face wiped free of makeup, jewellery gone. As beautiful as you were all “dolled up,” as his mom would say, the intimacy of your bare skin made him feel warm and shaky all over. As though he were a boy again, a kid with a lighter heart, more open for these feelings. “I’ve got my tablet in here,” you said, plopping the bag down on the wooden table in front of the window, and beginning to rummage through. “Do you want to maybe hunt down the wifi password while I get ready for bed, and we could watch something? It’s too bad there’s no TV in here…” 

That was a good idea. Bucky relaxed at the prospect of being able to watch something; he was used to an evening routine. Maria had helped him figure one out a long time ago, one that gradually disengaged his brain from combing too obsessively through his day, or his past. Baking, unfortunately, was usually a key part of it, but having the opportunity to let his mind drift during a show, or a movie, that would help. 

He smiled at you, promised he’d look, and thought about Steve’s voice, about how far the two of them had come together. Steve had a job, a house, a wife, children. He had a life that he managed to love enough to live. 

Bucky was at the threshold of his own, he felt. New business. New friends. And new tools to navigate even unpleasant hurdles. 

And it started with finding the wifi password. 

Turned out it was concealed under a box of tissues on the nightstand. Bucky pulled a chair up closer to the side of the bed, loosened his bun and tried to push his hair into some sort of order. A headache was beginning to tap at his temples, a sure sign of exhaustion, of growing overwhelmed. He took some steadying breaths, kicked off his sneakers and waited for you. 

Five minutes passed, and then eight, and by ten, Bucky had begun the sensory anchoring process all over again. The bathroom door opened with a squeak, flooding the cabin in soft, white light. Bucky fought the urge to stand, willing himself to slow his movements. He had a tendency, in stressful moments, to move quickly, almost disarmingly so. Instead, he waited. 

His smile came naturally, as it always seemed to do with you. He felt almost reassured by the easy way you moved about the small room, bare feet on the hardwood floor, poking out from underneath leggings and a loose t-shirt. It was strange, to see you like this; stranger still that you’d had the clothes at all. “My pre-wedding outfit,” you explained, and he remembered now the vision of you coming back in lace, and assumed the t-shirt must’ve been underneath the sweater. “I’m an overplanner.” 

Silently, Bucky handed over the wifi password, watched as you pulled a tablet from the depths of your bag, and tried not to shift too awkwardly as you slid back onto the bed with it balanced in your lap. After propping a pillow behind you, he felt the easy warmth of your curious glance. “Bucky, I don’t think you’ll be able to see from over there,” you said softly. “Are you comfortable getting into the bed right now?” 

“Um, yeah, okay.” 

The last time he’d shared a bed with someone, he hadn’t known her name. Not really. A nickname and a loose endearment had fit sloppily in his mouth, but she was kind and gentle and touched him with reverent hands. When he had stirred in the night, it had been in an unfamiliar bed, one piled high with white blankets and pillows and the overwhelming smell of jasmine.

He hadn’t been able to sleep. 

But now, he climbed over to sit next to you, stretching out his long legs and wincing with self-consciousness when he noticed your eyes flicker down to the chinos, to the way they stretched taut over his thighs. “Comfy?” you asked, and he could smell the soap on your hands, the airy lavender of whatever they’d used to wash this quilt, these sheets. 

“Yeah,” he rasped. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

So fine, that he couldn’t bring himself to choose anything to watch; so fine that he barely registered what was happening during the two episodes of _The Office_ you chose; so fine that the world had become reduced only to the sound of your laughter, the feel of your arm touching his. 

“Why do you think they have the woodstove?” 

Your voice shook him from what he realized was a shallow doze, and it took Bucky a minute to get his bearings, to realize that the tablet was face-down on the nightstand, and your eyes were trained on the corner, the squat little iron stove sitting there. “There’s no woodbox or anything,” you pointed out. 

“Oh.” He peered closer at it, and then realized it wasn’t cold in the room, not at all, though the air outside had been cool for late spring. “Hold on,” Bucky said, shifting from the bed and padding over. There _was_ something odd about the thing -- it looked pristine. Far too clean to have been burned at any point. Maybe it was blocked? He crouched down in front of it, and then whipped around at a soft, strange noise. 

He met your eyes, surprised to see your gaze heat up with embarrassment, and then turn away. “Uh, I think it might be electric.” Bucky slid his hands around the sides and back of it, grinned when he felt some buttons. A few quick taps, and the glass front of the stove flickered to life. Some faint heat poured out, but he switched off the function, instead letting the fake flames dance and lick the pane. “There we go.” 

It was nice -- brought no heat to the room but what he imagined between the two of you. And there was a cosy, shy kind of intimacy to the way he was able to slide back into the bed, watching your small movements to accommodate his space, wishing he knew you well enough to hold you tonight. 

Wishing for a lot of things. 

Back before, when he’d been in love with a lighter soul, Bucky had loved just _sleeping_ with a partner. Rolling over in the middle of the night to feel her cuddling against his chest; to link their fingers in dreams. To be woken in the morning by lips on his cheek. 

He wondered how you felt about that. 

“I like that show,” he blurted, when the silence began to weigh too much. “It’s funny. Steve watches it, he’s always trying to get me to try.” 

Bucky couldn’t help but think back to the coffee date, or whatever it had been, when conversation had flowed so easily. Whether it was the proximity now that held him back, or something else, he didn’t know, he just needed you to --

“Who’s Steve?” you asked, curiously, innocently -- because you _cared_. 

A smile. Bucky let himself melt into it, and fell headfirst. 

* * *

Four hours passed in stories, in humour, in revelations that felt easy and soft and Bucky laughed more in that cabin than he had in a long time. It started with Steve, and ended with the desert. Bucky unfolded that past of his past with tenderness and a raw, wanting pain that you answered with a gentle squeeze to his hand. 

“Let’s not go to sleep with that,” you said quietly, yawning around the night, the day. “Tell me something good.” 

Bucky shifted on the bed, reaching around to plump up the pillow behind him. You’d burrowed under the covers nearly an hour before, snuggling deep and breathing so deeply that, several times, he’d assumed you were asleep. He hadn’t done so yet; hadn’t even thought about what he was going to do with the button-down, the tight pants. There was no way he’d be able to sleep like this, and yet he had no other options. “Bucky,” you slurred. “Please tell me something good.” 

He cleared his throat, shivering when you wiggled beside him, hand brushing his hip. “My mom used to make this blueberry coffee cake,” he murmured. “It was so good. Sweet and soft.” 

_Like you_. 

“Always make the topping first -- brown sugar, cinnamon. Some flour. A little salt.” His mother had always mixed up the streusel topping with her fingers; once he’d turned eight, it had become his job. It was one of his fondest memories, and now, he stirred it for you. Told you about his mother’s quick hands and quicker smile; about the way she’d patiently go over every step of the process for him. About the taste of a fat blueberry bursting on his tongue, watching them tumble into the mixing bowl, the one from her mother, the one she’d given to him. Avocado-green.

Bucky talked as the night waned, as your breathing dipped and slowed and evened out into the faintest hint of a snore. He decided to stay above the covers; he was far too warm already, and reached over to the bedside table to flick off the lamp. But before he could, your fingers grazed his arm. 

“You can’t sleep like that, can you?” 

He felt safe in your eyes. In the way you smiled, rolled over to give him privacy. Safe enough to stand, to slide off the pants and the button-down, to slide under the quilt in boxer-briefs and an undershirt. To say “goodnight” and hear you say it back. To touch the scars on his arm and know it was okay, it was alright, he was still, sort of, kind of, somewhat whole.

* * *

_This desert is cold. Far colder than he remembers. With shaking fingers, he touches sand, to find it made of glass._

_A lightning-struck place, that’s what this is. Glass soaked in blood, and everywhere he might be cut._

_He looks, assesses. Waits for the humvee to come trundling over the hill, as it always does, but this time, it’s you._

_There’s sugar in your smile and a question in your eyes. Bucky opens his mouth to taste your name, but screams without sound instead._

* * *

Sunlight filtered through; a rush of water, and your voice. Feathered. Hazy. 

Bucky rolled over, flat on his belly, the way he always tended to wake up after a good night’s sleep. But how could that be, when the sharp kiss of that nightmare still lingered in his mind? 

Because of you. 

“Good morning, sleepy head,” you said softly. “We should probably be heading back soon. We can have some breakfast first, if you like.” 

A full-body flush flooded his skin as everything came back to him: the searing honesty, the story about his mother, the bad dream, and the fact that, though you were dressed in that sweatshirt and leggings again, neat and tidy and bag over your shoulder, he’d become so tangled up in the quilt and sheets that his arm was fully visible. 

In all its gnarled, scarred honesty. You’d touched it the night before, he remembered vaguely. Or had that been his imagination?

Bucky sat up, willed himself not to look at you. Couldn’t bear it. Had he thrashed in his sleep? Disturbed you so much you were already awake? God, how was he going to endure the ride back to town? “Uh, sure,” he said, distractedly, searching the floor for his clothes. 

“They have a good restaurant here.” With his senses heightened, he could hear the unease in your voice, the unspoken question. “The waffles come really highly recommended.”

He shoved his arms back into the sleeves, did up the pants, willed himself to stop shaking. You weren’t upset, so he shouldn’t be, right? But he could feel his brain struggling to come to terms with it all. Trying to translate the fluttering in his stomach, the fire in his cheeks. The awkwardness of your tone. 

“Sure,” he said, looking for his watch, his phone, his composure. “Sounds good.” 

But though it sounded good, it didn’t taste good. The waffles were frozen, limp. Drizzled in butter syrup and, four tables over, a happy couple drank in the romance of the wedding weekend with loving kisses and endearments that set Bucky’s teeth entirely on edge. 

Across the table, you poked at your breakfast, tried to pull out some conversation. Had it only been a few hours before that you’d poured your whole life out to him? Your hopes for your business? Your friendship with Nat and Sam? 

Even the waitress seemed to notice some tension. 

“Want that to go?” she asked Bucky, fiddling with her pen and glancing curiously between the two of you. She gestured to his still-full plate. He’d taken three bites of the waffles, and that was more than enough to realize they were God-awful. 

“No, thanks. Are you done?” 

He winced at the gruffness of his tone, at the hurt in your eyes. The warm intimacy of the night before seemed to have dissipated entirely, but Bucky’s entire focus right now was on _not_ falling to pieces. Not panicking. On staying calm. 

Silence -- not of the friendly, easy kind, between two people who _knew_ they didn’t need to fill a space, just be together -- accompanied the rather cold, stiff steps of paying for breakfast, checking out of the resort, and walking back to the van. Bucky felt faint nausea bloom in his stomach at the realization of how quickly he was allowing things to change, but it was just, all of it, _too much_. 

He could’ve hurt you last night. 

And he hadn’t needed to see your face to realize what you thought of his arm. Those painful scars, vivid rivulets of twisted white skin crawling over muscles, over a broken tattoo. Who would want to touch something like that? Especially with hands as soft as yours? He must’ve imagined it. 

You spent the time answering texts and emails on your phone, venturing only stiff, uncertain conversation. Weather. The drive. Things anybody could have talked about, nothing special. Nothing true. And Bucky was left only with the strange weight of an unburdened mind, cruelly and recklessly shoved back into the small, lonely dark. 


	5. Five

Showers were always a pain in the ass -- sometimes literally. Bucky yelped as he accidentally backed into the soap shelf, and hoped that Steve wasn’t down in the garage to hear it.

Scrubbing shampoo through his hair, Bucky closed his eyes and tried to plan his day. Since the wedding, he’d been struggling to slide back into the reassuring flow of a regular schedule, something Gina and Maria had _both_ advised him to do, early in his recovery and even more recently. Maintaining a rigid, unchanging sense of control wasn’t ideal, but having daily goals and expectations went a long way to easing the tight knot of panic that had made its home in his belly, his veins, a long time ago. 

But calm and routine had been hard to find recently. Unanswered text messages and emails clogged up his phone and laptop, but he couldn’t bring himself to face you, even with a virtual buffer. Or anyone else, really, for that matter. 

It was a Code Red, a slow one, but bright and frightening all the same. Bucky knew he should reach out -- that just taking care of minimal daily requirements and work wasn’t technically functional, and certainly not sustainable, but some sharp vulnerability had become all too familiar in the weeks since the wedding, and it was somehow easier to simply lean into _that_ then it was to actually face himself. As he was. 

Progress gone. 

He towelled himself dry and threw on what had once been pajamas, but now counted as a daily uniform: basketball shorts and a baggy grey t-shirt. Why bother with anything more involved, he figured. Moving through his apartment, it was clear even to Bucky that, with one step inside, Steve would be able to realize they were in a state of Code Red. 

Clothes littered the floor; he hadn’t put the pull-out back to its sofa format in at least a week; blankets strewn all over the place. Only the kitchen counters remained fairly clean; copious boxes and bags of takeout were stuffed into one corner, of course, but no baking implements were drying on the rack, and no new recipes were stuck to the fridge. 

He hadn’t baked since the wedding. 

A sigh; it wasn’t good, and Bucky knew himself well enough to understand that these weren’t good signs. Distantly, he remembered the good steps, the better habits, the resources at his disposal, but for the life of him, he couldn’t even understand _why_ he had sunk so, so low. 

Only that the rhythm of your breathing in the small of the night had been the prettiest, sweetest sound he’d heard in a long time. 

The memory soured with the return of the morning after -- his scars on full display, the fulsome tragedy of his situation sitting jarringly side-by-side with your soft smile, and the embarrassing confusion of the night before. You’d thought he was dating Pam; he’d thought he could tell you how he felt -- and then…

Bucky raked a hand through his messy hair and decided that he needed to do _something_. Couldn’t let himself slip back into poor habits, couldn’t let himself lose the progress he’d made over the past couple of years. The morning after the wedding had been uncomfortable, a mistake, even, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Didn’t have to be the end of you and him, whatever that was, and his recovery was _his_. His project. His baby. His life. 

And it started with cleaning. 

Well, technically, it started with a to-do list. Bucky put on a podcast he’d been meaning to get to a few weeks before, something about meringue techniques, and rummaged around his kitchen drawers for a blank sheet of paper. He ended up scrawling out his day on the back of a flyer for the school bake sale -- he managed a faint smile at the memory of your mac and cheese cake, and the thought of you only brought a small twinge this time. 

_Cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping, emails._ A simple list; Bucky added in the hope for a workout, and then decided that that would have to be the first thing anyway. Get his blood pumping, some fresh air. He could come back to the apartment fortified and energized, tackle his day with more strength. 

Just like Gina and Maria had taught him. 

He thumbed through the playlists on his phone until he’d found one that would ease him into a purposeful walk, and then tied on his sneakers and grabbed a bottle of water. One hand on the door, he turned back to look at his tiny apartment, mess that it was. The sight reminded him of the guest room he’d slept in after the hospital, the veritable hurricane his depression had been back then. How strange it had been, to have his body, his mind, feel so achingly sluggish, so sapped of energy, and to see that manifest in the world as chaos, as a storm. 

A chirp from his phone interrupted his thoughts; Bucky glanced down to see your name flash on the screen. Email. Another one. He gritted his teeth to think how he’d probably offended you, confused you. He’d done the same to Steve before, to Sharon. To friends from high school and once, in a bad, bad time, to poor little Ava. 

But he could fix it. He could. He was strong enough, resilient enough. He’d get through this, and it started with one step. 

* * *

The day melted into something so close to peace and calm that by dinnertime, Bucky felt ready to fall asleep. Three loads of laundry; fresh sheets on his bed (tucked neatly away as the sofa for now); a frozen pizza heating up in the oven and the promise of babysitting Ava and Oliver while Steve and Peggy headed out to a movie. He’d vacuumed his entire place after the invigorating walk, even found himself singing along to Patsy Cline a little while he scrubbed the bathroom. He’d tackled a huge chunk of his inbox, though he’d filtered your name. 

And hadn’t even looked at his texts yet. 

Nevertheless, things were looking up. He’d squeezed in a meditation session before getting groceries, and had stopped in at the local bookstore to pick up a new notebook after being inspired to start journaling again. It was a habit he’d let go of within the past year, and wanted to get back to. Seeing his own thoughts on the page had always somehow helped him to understand them better; as though they became something tangible once he’d trapped them in ink. Something he could translate, and hold. 

Bucky was just jotting down some thoughts about his reaction to you after the wedding when there was a knock on the door. 

Ava’s bright grin, missing her two front teeth, and a blur of rainbow pajamas was all he could see before something solid, warm, and laughing slammed into his middle. Followed closely by a second slam, this one a rush of yellow and orange. “You got me!” he croaked, dropping to his knees with a lapful of Rogers’ kids. Oliver snuggled into his neck, same as he’d used to do as a baby, and Bucky couldn’t help but chuckle at the slightly exasperated expression on their mother’s face, looking down at the pile on the kitchen floor with some dismay. 

“Okay, kiddos, next time, we just say, ‘ _Hi, Uncle Bucky_ ,’” Sharon said, shaking her head as her daughter straddled Bucky’s right arm and began braiding his hair absentmindedly. “Gotta be more careful.” 

“Yeah, Bucky’s an old man, you know.” Steve stepped into view, adjusting the sleeves of his dark blue sweater. “Isn’t that right, pal? Got your Ovaltine and crossword puzzle ready to go for tonight?” 

“Keep it up, punk, like you won’t be asleep before the opening credits.”

Sharon held up a neatly manicured hand; Bucky smiled when he noticed the bracelet he’d brought back for from the desert gleaming there. It had been for his mom, he realized again with a sinking feeling, but took firm hold of the thought, stepped outside it -- yes, it had been for his mother, but when he’d realized she would never wear it, he’d decided to give it to another important woman in his life. The closest thing to a sister he had. 

Dark brown eyes, the colour of chocolate, followed his gaze, and met him over the crown of Oliver’s head. Bucky thought of her favourite dessert -- his sangria cupcakes, topped with orange slices, a strawberry, and a blueberry. How she’d begged for them at her birthday last fall, slung her arms around his neck and proclaimed him a genius. Made _him_ feel so special for making _her_ feel so special. 

He cleared his throat, willing the emotion to stay down, at least for now, and asked the kids to go set the table and check the timer on his phone. At the door, Steve gave him the usual spiel -- they’d be home at ten-ish, could he bring the kids down and tuck them into bed? But they both knew that wouldn’t happen, and Sharon even jokingly put in a request for those double-chocolate cookies as she called her children back for a kiss and then headed down the stairs to the garage. Babysitting with Uncle Bucky always meant a late night, a sugar rush, and a baking experience that left pajamas stained with frosting and fingers sticky. 

Not that anyone really minded. 

Steve watched his wife go with a half-tucked smile that clearly said he’d be along in a minute, and Bucky urged the kids to find the mismatched plastic Disney cups he’d collected as a child and had yet to actually get rid of.

The kids loved the cups, and Bucky loved them. 

“Hey” -- Steve’s voice was soft, gentle, but not superior -- “you good?” 

If Steve had asked him just twelve hours ago, Bucky probably would’ve given him a shaky “ _No_ ,” but now? He glanced over his shoulder; he’d bought a big bag of chocolate chips and Hershey’s kisses; blue and purple frosting was chilling in the fridge. The apartment was clean and he thought, he really did think, he might have enough in him to answer your emails tomorrow. 

The morning had been a clear Code Red, Bucky thought with some dismay, but he’d turned it around. By himself. Because that’s what he did; took care of himself. “You know what,” he said, smiling widely at his oldest friend, “I’m doing just fine, Stevie. You?” 

Steve could see through his brave face, just as well as Bucky could see through his. There was little room for lies in a friendship as old as theirs, as thorough and as deep, so Bucky didn’t bother. “ _Doing just fine_ ,” meant that he hadn’t been doing that well. That Steve’s texts and random visits, the one probing conversation they’d had a few days ago -- that concern had all been warranted. But the trust between them, that Bucky always knew his best and oldest friend was just a phone call away, that help was never far, meant that they could take their own steps, too. Embrace healing in their own way.

A hand reached out over the threshold, but Steve didn’t bother -- there were moments for handshakes, and there were moments for hugs. Steve drew Bucky closer, eyes closing on the clean, warm apartment, the baking supplies out on the counter, and the sight of his son and daughter snuggling up with their favourite cushions on the sofa. He breathed in the sweet scent of hope and resilience that seemed, somehow to Steve, after all these years, to smell of something fresh-baked. Something warm and sprinkled in sugar. 

Something uniquely Bucky. 

And he smiled. 

* * *

The cookies made the apartment smell warm and sweet, and there was something so satisfying about glancing over to see Ava and Oliver curled up on the couch, watching a movie, while Bucky set to washing the dishes. On the kitchen table, the teddy bears cooled -- a soft touch from his childhood, that’s what they were. As though his mother had stepped into the place with them, leaned over to take a deep sniff, and proclaimed them “ _Perfect_ ,” just as he had. To Ava and Ollie’s delight. 

Sure, some of them were lopsided, with winsome or crooked smiles, and most had mismatched M&M eyes, at Oliver’s request, but mostly, Bucky was simply happy that he’d just _done something_. Gently wrested himself free of the bad things, the sad things. The heavy things. 

“Hey, princess.” Bucky grinned at the light squeeze to his middle. Ava had a habit of tucking herself there, face smushed into his back. “How’s the movie?” 

“Kinda dumb,” she said lightly, peering around his elbow to see the bubbly sink. “Do you need any help?” 

He glanced down at her; she had her mother’s eyes and her father’s reckless streak, all impulsive courage. Gymnastics and bike tricks and daredevil theatres on the rope swing out in the backyard. It amazed him, sometimes, that watching Ava was somehow so close to having Steve back, as though he could step back into his childhood while running around with this pigtailed hellion who reminded him so easily of simple days. 

But she was quiet tonight, and soft. In need of cuddles, after the excitement of pizza and cookies, and Bucky knew her well enough to know she thought she was too old now to ask for that. So he placed the last dish in the drying rack and wiped off his hands, the scent of citrus rising on the air and causing a lingering bit of tension from a busy day to dissipate. Rest was as important as doing, he reminded himself firmly. Rest was good. 

A cookie for each of them and two glasses of milk for the kids; Bucky settled between them on the couch and listened as Oliver explained the plot of the cartoon he’d chosen. “So the turkeys are trying to stop Thanksgiving?” he asked, slightly dumbfounded. 

“Smart, right?” Ollie laughed and snuggled further into Bucky’s embrace. The left side. He swallowed thickly as Ava prattled on about her favourite turkey and Ollie pressed his nose to Bucky’s t-shirt. Not squirming away from the knotted, angry scars snaking around his flesh; not shuddering at the press of war against his yellow pajama sleeve. 

Tears, unbidden and hot, crept up his throat at the sight of the cheery, bright stripes of Oliver’s shirt, under the heavy, ugly weight of Bucky’s pain. But Oliver didn’t know. Didn’t care. Because to Oliver, to Ava, to Steve and Sharon, Bucky was so much more than that pain. It was there, of course it was, in the nightmares and the Code Reds and the soft, sad look Sharon got in her eyes on the heavy anniversaries, the day in November when he and Steve would go so quiet, retreat somewhere grey and private. It was there in the therapy appointments, in the journals he’d once poured his broken, bleeding heart into; in the recipes he clung to, and the hope he both nurtured and craved. 

You hadn’t squirmed away from his arm, either. You hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t looked at him with disgust, with fear. Hadn’t touched him with anything more than honesty, than friendship, generosity. And what had he done? Thrown it all back in your face. 

The intimacy of sharing a bed, of knowing what you looked like as you slept, of knowing how much at risk he had put you by letting his guard down in your presence -- that was something he could’ve explained. Hadn’t Kathy said all that, in so many words? Being honest, speaking his truth. Letting you know that he had honest-to-God butterflies in his stomach every time you looked at him, that he wanted something more than just emails about parties and weddings. That sitting across from Pam that afternoon had shown him two things: that he was _capable_ of connecting, of letting someone new in, someone that hadn’t known him _Before_ , only _After_ ; and that he liked Pam, really liked her, wanted her in his life, but that there was a marked difference in the way he felt around her, and the way he felt around you. 

Hell, there was a difference in the way he felt _without_ her, and without you. Going out without you was like…

Like trying to breathe with one lung. Like trying to bake with no recipe. Like hoping that something good could come from no effort, from pretending you didn’t need anything. As though he could find his way through the dark. Trying to go home with no directions.

Bucky waited until the kids had dropped off, Ava’s breathing evening out against his chest, Ollie’s right leg twitching a little, slung across his lap. Gingerly, he managed to reach across the side table for his phone, thumbed through until he found the litany of emails from you. All with polite, professional subject lines; your texts were another matter. Less consistent; slimmer; and clearly showing some sense of fading hope. 

The last one, from earlier today -- _I hope you’re okay_. 

A sharp exhale -- Bucky worked to fight the sinking feeling of guilt deep in his stomach. Yeah, he should’ve emailed you. Texted. Let you know he was okay. But he couldn’t go back in time; all he had was right now.

Maybe he couldn’t fix the whole thing; but he could start with an apology. 

_Hey_ …

He didn’t go into a ton of detail; just acknowledged the rudeness of his silence and what it must have felt like for you. _I haven’t been at my best the past couple of weeks_ , he explained, as Ava stirred and snuggled closer, under his arm. 

By the blue glow of the television, he waited for your response. It was late in the evening, and you might be working. Wedding season, after all. He sat with the anxiety, and talked it down. Dismantled it. Looked it face-on and saw it for what it was. 

When your text came in, Bucky paused for a minute, shifting on the couch under Oliver’s weight and living in the moment before your (he assumed) profound disappointment. Maybe even dislike. And he had to accept that, had to hold that possibility in his mind for a while before thumbing open the message and reading, eyes widening. 

_I’m so glad to hear from you. I’ve got a bit of a problem I could use your help with, if you wouldn’t mind. So happy to hear you’re doing better_. 

No emojis, but that was okay. Your tone throughout was simple but warm, and when he texted you back to ask for more details, you came at him with a request to come over to your place. An address. Tomorrow morning, if possible. _What’s going on?_ Bucky asked, wincing. Hoping he didn’t sound too forward. 

_Bit of an emergency._

He frowned, anxiety twisting anew in his stomach. _You okay?_

At the response, slow coming and lengthy when it appeared, Bucky almost jumped off the couch, and had to settle for wiggling around under the two little bodies sprawled over him. He checked his watch; Steve and Sharon should be home in another half hour. He hoped you could wait long enough. 

* * *

Bucky’s nerves were frayed by the time you opened the door, a baleful smile firmly in place and clad in cozy pajamas that made his mouth go dry and his hands tremble around the tray of brownies he’d hastily tossed in the oven from his freezer supply. “Are those...where did you get flowers at 10:30 at night?” you asked, eyes dancing as you reached for the treats. “Come in, cupcake guy.” 

Rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, Bucky followed you into your apartment, having paced back and forth outside of it for several minutes while double-checking the address you’d texted. Any calm he’d garnered throughout his recovery day had been disrupted by his nervousness now, not to mention the blush that was slowly flooding his cheeks as he took in _your_ living space. Yours. 

Warm and inviting, soft blankets and candles. A small tank of fish burbled over by one window, and, with your trademark efficiency, you pulled out a pretty vintage vase for the flowers he’d manically picked from the Rogers’ garden before jumping into his truck. “I really appreciate this, Bucky,” you said, fluffing up the hydrangeas and leaning in to smell them. “The flowers, the brownies, and...and you. You’re a really good friend, coming over like this.” 

“It’s no problem,” he said gruffly, kicking off his shoes and following you further into the apartment. The kitchen was small, and ordinarily, he was sure, neat as a pin, but it currently looked like a murder scene. “Uh…I thought you were, uh, baking.” 

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” A broad smile unfurled, as you gestured to the chaotic mess behind you. “Well, my secret’s out -- now you see what happened to the last guy I had over,” you joked, swiping a finger delicately through a puddle of red splashed across your refrigerator door. “Hank was nice, but -- _blergh_.” Your face twisted in disgust as the food colouring hit your tongue. “Ugh, that’s gross. See why I need your help?”

Bucky pressed down a grin at your expense, and reached for a roll of paper towel overturned by the sink. The kitchen was a disaster, bowls and boxes and messy spoons dripping red, cakey gore. A printed recipe sheet was soaked through with egg, and the faint scent of burning made him wrinkle his nose. “Okay, so you mentioned...a party?” 

“Not just any party.” You sighed, gesturing towards the living room. Bucky followed with some faint disbelief: he was in your _home_ , your _space_ . A place permeated and radiating _you_. “It’s Sam’s homecoming party. Tomorrow.”

 _Sam_. Bucky’s stomach dropped, because _homecoming_ could mean so many things: for Steve, it had been marriage, family; for Bucky, physical therapy and a funeral home. For others still, it was a folded flag and retreating to memory. 

But you wouldn’t be telling him this if it was _bad_ , he thought firmly, sinking down onto the warm, soft sofa and willing the tension to leach out of his body. This wasn’t a bad thing. This wasn’t a sad thing. There’d be no party if it was. “Nat asked me to plan it, because she’s been so busy. Trying to prep to take some time off when he’s _back_ , you know? And Riley doesn’t know, most of their friends don’t, it’s a total surprise. You and I are the only other ones who know.” 

Something close to pleasure kind of purrs inside him, this thought of being close to you in this way. Trusted. After how he’s left you in the lurch these past few weeks, he hardly deserves it, but he’s happy to be here. “So what are your plans?” 

A sigh, and you tucked your feet up underneath you, facing Bucky as you began talking about a barbecue, a pool party. Another bouncy castle. He sank into the easy embrace of work talk, the spell you wove when you got so enthusiastic about crafting joy and celebration for others. It was a magic he brushed, with his baking. “Sam’s favourite cake, apparently, is red velvet, and it’s driving me crazy,” you groaned, sinking forward, forehead to his shoulder. His left shoulder. 

He froze; the scent of your perfume tangled with sugar; pressed up against him and your mouth, as you spoke, almost brushed the sleeve of his shirt. Underneath your pretty skin, there were dark, old, ragged scars. A legacy of pain. 

No one touched him there, except his family. 

And yet, he shivered pleasantly under your touch, couldn’t help but grin when you shook your head back and forth in frustration against him. “I can’t make the cake, Bucky,” you grumbled. “It hates me.”

“‘S’alright,” he said, awkwardly patting you on the back. “I can walk you through it. I’ve got a couple tricks for red velvet.” 

“Yeah?” Your eyes drifted up to meet his; Bucky realized for the first time how _tired_ you looked. It seemed faintly and unfairly ironic to him that bringing joyful celebrations to others necessitated so much time and energy sacrificed on your part, but he knew that, come tomorrow, you’d be waltzing into Natasha’s backyard with a big smile and a stylish outfit, no matter how little sleep you’d gotten. 

Gently, he touched the curve of your jaw with his left hand. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmured, a tingle bursting along his spine at the hitch in your breathing, the softness of your skin. The smile in your eyes, and on your lips. 

* * *

As the clock ticked closer and closer to midnight, Bucky found himself guiding you through his mother’s red velvet recipe -- by memory -- in the freshly-cleaned and reclaimed kitchen. Wearing a borrowed apron patterned with dachshunds on skateboards (“housewarming gift, please don’t ask”), Bucky expertly whipped up four egg whites, explaining as he did that it made the texture of the cake, as he put it, “magical.”

“Magical?” You peered dubiously into the mixing bowl he’d rescued from your earlier attempts. “Pixie dust or something?” 

Bucky laughed; at first, it had come out rusty, but with more jokes and more comfort -- especially the brief soap-suds fight you’d initiated over the sink -- it now emerged smooth. Natural. “Something like that,” he chuckled, before walking you through the next few steps of the recipe. 

“You know, this was my mom’s wedding cake recipe,” he mentioned off-handedly, watching you confidently begin folding in the ingredients. “She loved making this.”

Your pretty smile was all it took for him to feel weak in the knees; better still was the swipe of cream cheese frosting on your cheek. “She must be proud of you,” you said, reaching for the bowl of frosting Bucky had whipped up, to place it in the fridge; easier for piping, he’d told you, if it was chilled. “Starting your own business.” 

His mouth went dry; a spasm shot up his left arm, and the realization came to a screeching halt right there in your tiny kitchen, as you brushed the flour from your own apron and gently placed the bowl inside the fridge. You didn’t know; he hadn’t told you. 

“Uh…” But the words wouldn’t come. They had never come easily. As though the truth about his mother, the cold reality of a world without her in it, was an unspeakable thing. And your smile, your face, your relief over him finally replying to you, explaining in some part the reason he’d been so distant the past few weeks -- he was about to wipe that away. “She, um, she passed away a few years ago. While I was deployed.” 

Bucky looked down at the bowl of red batter, at the tiled floor, at the dish towel hanging over the oven handle -- anywhere but at you. The soft mix of sympathy and awkwardness, he’d never really been able to deal with that. Not his mother’s friends, clucking and cooing over him as they talked about flower arrangements and obituary fonts; not even Steve and Sharon, who’d been young and in love and inexperienced with grief. Kathy, at the wedding, had been a rare exception, perhaps because she reminded him of his mother, and -- 

A shiver passed through him at the barest brush of your hand, gently intertwining your fingers with his. He glanced up; your gaze was soft, sad but not pitying. “I’m so sorry, Bucky,” you murmured. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

Courage, and something sweet, melted on his tongue, and Bucky found himself squeezing your hand, reaching to wipe the frosting from your cheek. Your lips parted, and he found himself stroking his thumb, just lightly, against them. It wasn’t time for kissing, he thought dimly, not when this loss sat so prominently between the two of you, but he wanted you to know he _felt_. He just felt. Everything he had pushed away for a long time -- buried in nicknamed girls, and mountains of journals; in baking and driving and running and now _this_. A safe place to land. 

He was safe here. So were you. And he couldn’t imagine how it had happened, how quickly it had been born. That, just a few weeks ago, you had been a friend of a friend and a name he couldn’t quite remember -- the event planner. 

Now, you were _you_ , in all that wonderful knowledge. And _you_ took a step closer, loosened his hand, and tucked yourself against his chest. Vaguely, Bucky registered your hands winding around him, pressed to his back; stunned, he sank into it. 

It was a homecoming kind of hug, and he felt -- pressing his forehead to your shoulder, breathing deep the smell of your perfume, of cocoa powder and frosting -- that he’d been gone for such a long time. Away and apart from these sweet stirrings. These knowings.

As the night drew on, and batter sat unfinished on the counter, Bucky embraced you there in the kitchen, listening to your kind words and wondering if your lips tasted as sweet as the things you said. He shared more, unsheathing his history in greater, and sadder, detail than he’d done in the cabin; and carried more of yours in return. Several times throughout the baking process, you touched him simply: a hand to his back, a smile he could _feel_. 

And by one a.m., in the wordless way of old, old friends, Bucky fell asleep on your sofa, a blue blanket stretched over him; the smell of the red velvet cake permeating the apartment with a rich, decadent perfume. You gave him a smile, and a kiss to his forehead that, surprisingly, didn’t make him feel like a little kid. 

No, it made him feel _cared_ for. Wanted. _Safe_. 

The water ran in your bathroom; soft, lilting music flowed from your bedroom. As he drifted off to the sounds of you winding down for the night, Bucky thought of what he had written about you in his journal: 

_I know it’s fast, but I know it’s her_. 


	6. Six

The sound of rain stirred Bucky the next morning; a steady pattering against the windows. He blinked awake with the stale taste of brownies and relinquished truths sitting uncomfortably in his mouth. The muscles of his back were stretched taut and stiff, and it was with a faint groan that he struggled to sit up and stretch. A glance down at his phone revealed it was nearly seven; and that he had four missed messages from Steve, and one from Sharon. 

“Crap.”

“Good morning to you, too.” What was it about the morning that made you seem so much more _you_ ? As though you’d turned up the wattage on that sleepy smile; wore pink pajamas as though they were high fashion. Bucky felt the same feathered brush of intimacy now as he had back in the cabin, but this time, he refused to let himself sink into regret. This was a _good_ thing. 

“Hey,” he said, typing out an apology and a quick reply to Steve. He’d let him and Sharon know he was headed out to yours late last night, but not that he’d be staying the night. “How’d you sleep?” 

A sigh, and a stretch -- Bucky looked away from the band of skin revealed as you raised your arms over your head and tried not to think about kissing you there. “Better knowing that demon cake is finished and ready to go for today. I’ve only got to hope now that the sun comes out by lunchtime.” 

The red velvet cake for Sam Wilson’s homecoming party still needed to be frosted and decorated, and after seeing what you’d done to your infamous bake sale contribution, Bucky was a little loath to let you loose with the piping bag and tips you’d ordered online and had yet to actually open up -- but he also wasn’t sure how to make that offer. This friendship, after last night, after he’d explained fully the nature of his absence and the way his PTSD affected his life now, seemed to have taken on a new dimension. An emotional one. And he wasn’t yet sure if that left enough room for things like cake decorating. 

He leaned forward, rubbing his hands over his knees, trying to figure out where to go next. It had been a long time since he’d done this sort of thing -- the cabin stay he refused to count -- and most girls he’d been with had simply been content to grab a coffee on their way out or point him in the direction of a good diner in their area. 

But there was a pull -- a deeper longing in his belly right now. He wanted to stretch out this morning, claim it in this soft, warm place. 

He just wasn’t sure how.

You, though, you knew how. To jump lightly over moments of potential awkwardness, and take control of the moment. This innate sense of efficiency had drawn him to you in the first place, and he found safety in it now. As you stepped into the kitchen, chatting about the cake, and the party, and the cranky landlord who refused to plant flowers in the apartment complex’s communal yard. “I mean, it’s just stingy, you know?” you said, switching on the coffeemaker and grabbing two mugs from the cupboard. “Who could look a little old lady and say, ‘No, Deborah, you can’t plant geraniums here.’” 

A steady, smooth kind of rhythm quickly emerged once Bucky had joined you in the kitchen. In the same way you’d adapted quickly to him in your kitchen the night before, working with you at birthday parties and weddings, there existed an easy, companionable quiet that soothed him. Made him feel safe. Every now and then, you’d make an observation, or he’d ask where a utensil was kept. Flour, too. 

“I hope the rain stops before the party,” you said anxiously, peering out the kitchen window down to the parking lot below. “The kids love being able to jump in the pool.” 

“You got a back-up plan if it doesn’t?” Bucky swiftly cracked an egg into the mixing bowl, reached for the stick of butter he’d melted in the microwave. 

A frown he knew you didn’t mean aimed at him over the counter. “Of course I do, Barnes. You think this is my first rodeo?” 

He chuckled, whisking together the ingredients for pancakes as you proceeded to tell him, between giggles, of the rodeo-themed bachelorette party you’d once planned. “And so the maid of honour ended up marrying the cowboy stripper,” you laughed, “and for _her_ bachelorette party, the groom got me a great discount with his former employer. They’ve been my prime dancers ever since.” 

Bucky liked the sound of your laughter, the way it filled up the room. The way it touched him, a tangible blessing. Better still was the brush of your hand on his arm, urging him to stop for a minute, mid-whisk. “I think I have chocolate chips,” you said quickly, padding over to the pantry. “I bought them for an experiment, there still should be…” 

He watched you rummage through the shelves, muttering to yourself distractedly, and took a sip of coffee. The last time he’d shared it with you, he would never have imagined drinking it in _your_ kitchen, after staying the night, while making breakfast together. And it amazed him that it all felt _so right_ \-- joking and laughing and complaining about the rain, smiling as you rushed back over to him, tipping the open bag of chocolate chips over into the mixing bowl. “Oh, wait, sweetheart, that’s too --” 

A slow disaster; Bucky watched it coming from a mile away. He reached out one hand to tuck back the bag, only for you to push it forward at precisely the same moment. The bag fell, his elbow hit the mixing bowl, and it all went clattering to the floor, spurting up a spray of pancake batter all over his pants. And the cupboards. And the oven. And your bare feet. 

For a full minute, Bucky just stared down at the mess, counting one, two, seven chocolate chips dropping down in the remaining thick sludge slowly sliding from the edge of the counter. Beside him, you stood stock-still and silent, and he sorely wished he could just run away. Not have to deal with the awkwardness of apologizing, not have you see the way he’d _jumped_ at the loud noise, clutched his own arm. 

“Bucky?” 

Your voice came from far away, sounding tunnelly and small. Deep breaths, that’s all he could do. And _squeeze_ the muscle of his arm -- no, he wasn’t supposed to do that anymore. He had other coping mechanisms to deal with being startled. What was one of them? Oh yes, visualization, visualization. 

All he could picture was your face. 

“Hey, you okay?” 

Bucky shook his head, released his arm. No risk. There was no risk. “Yeah, I’m...I’m good,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry, sometimes loud noises, or sudden movements -- strange environment, you know.” 

You nodded slowly, biting your lip as you surveyed the mess. “I’m really sorry, I’m such a klutz. I didn’t mean to...oh, I’m so sorry, Bucky.” 

Were those -- were those tears in your eyes? 

Gently, tenderly, he brushed a thumb against the curve of your cheek, urging you to look at him. “Hey,” he murmured. “I’m good. You’re good. It was an accident. We can fix it.”

Did he imagine it, or were you leaning into his touch? Stepping closer until Bucky’s hand naturally opened, cupping your jaw, stroking lightly against your cheek? Yeah, that was _real_. It was real and Bucky was here and you smelled like fresh coffee and it was raining and perfect and _beautiful_. Just like you. Everything seemed to settle upon him at once, and he realized then that he should have kissed you at the wedding. Should’ve kissed you by the river or in the cabin. 

His eyes flickered down to your lips; he wondered how they might taste. He was so distracted, he didn’t even notice your hand on his chest, your bare foot in the batter -- until it was too late. 

A slick slide, and he grabbed you around the waist so that as the two of you toppled, you fell over him. More than over him: you were _covering_ him, legs tangled, and Bucky could scarcely breathe when he realized how close your face was to his. “Oops,” you said softly, and that was it -- that was all it took. 

Bucky burst out laughing, curving his hand around the small of your back as you joined in. “I’m making a great impression, aren’t I?” you groaned with a smile, nestling your forehead against his neck. “Here, let me perform a one-woman rendition of the stampede scene from _Jumanji_ in order to get the cute guy --” Your head snapped up, lips in a firm line as you realized what you had said. 

His grin was slow, but sweet. “You think I’m cute, sweetheart?” he rasped, hoarse from laughter. Smile widening when he realized you were squirming a little against him, and shivering when he stroked your back. 

“‘Course I do.” Your voice was so quiet, he had to strain to hear it. Better to read your pretty lips, he decided, gaze darkening as you looked down at him with a soft, warm intensity. “More than that. I think you’re...I think you’re amazing. I-I’ve wanted to tell you that for a while, Bucky.” 

He swallowed, chewed on his lip. There were butterflies in his stomach, and he suddenly wished he had Steve’s artistic talent, to paint you a picture of what it felt like _inside_ to hear those words. Sweet as sugar; like honey on his tongue; the taste of his mother’s cookies and cake and the feel of her arms around him. He’d had therapists tell him they were _impressed_ by him; he’d had Steve and Sharon say they were _proud_ of him -- but to hear you say that? It was like coming home when he hadn’t even realized he’d been lost. 

“You’re pretty,” he blurted, suddenly overwhelmed -- pleasantly so -- by the brimming joy inside. “I...sweetheart, can I...can I kiss you?” 

A slow, heady gaze traced from his eyes to his lips. Gently, sensually, Bucky thought, you stroked a finger along his jaw; he shivered at the glide of it against the rough stubble. Eyes drifting shut as you nodded. “Yes, please, Bucky,” you murmured, thumb rubbing against his chin. “Please kiss me.” 

He moved gently, cupping his left hand, his scarred hand, against your beautiful skin, thumb rubbing against your cheek. “Sweetheart, I” -- he blinked, and then winced. “Oh, sorry.” Quickly, he thumbed away the pancake batter he’d swiped across your cheek; a glob of chocolate heated from his touch, perhaps. “Crap.” He rubbed a little more firmly, making more of a mess. 

Your lips pinched together in barely-contained amusement for as long as you could possibly manage; face half-covered now with batter and chocolate and the biggest, brightest smile he’d ever seen. Laughter bubbled out of you at the same moment he let go,too, and drew you down to his mouth to savour the taste of your joy mingled with his own. 

Kisses punctuated by giggles filled the tiny, messy kitchen; but Bucky had never, ever felt more _right_ , more _cherished_ , than he did stretched out on that tile floor, doused in chocolate and raw egg, rolling over to deepen the kiss and feel that joyous, sugary rush of simple, pure acceptance. 

His lips roved over your skin, tucking sweet little kisses to the curve of your neck, as you stroked your fingers through his hair and made the cutest sounds he’d ever heard. “ _Bucky_ ,” you breathed, when he’d found a good spot. It had been a long damn time since he’d kissed somebody, but he could feel the muscle memory of pleasure coursing through him. Yeah, a kiss there -- oh, you reached for his hand, and he happily linked his fingers with yours, feeling the sticky mess of batter between his palm and yours. 

Dizzying, that’s what it was. To kiss you, and to be kissed. He could have lived forever in the laughing kisses, the smooth, caring glide of your hand against his back. In the little whispers and the shivers tiptoeing deliciously down his spine as you played with his hair. Bucky lost himself in the sensations, in the delicious experience of _you_. Veins swimming with electric delight; a day could have passed and he wouldn’t have noticed. 

At least until the faint ringing of your cell phone tugged him back down to Earth, and he felt you reluctantly wiggle underneath him. “Shoot,” you mumbled, stamping a quick peck to his lips. “That’s probably Nat.” 

Pancake batter clung to your pyjamas, and Bucky swallowed another laugh as he realized there were chocolate chips dotting your upper arms. He pushed himself to his feet, careful not to slip in the mess as you fumbled for your phone on the counter, taking a few deep, steadying breaths before you answered. “Good morning!” you said cheerily -- a little too cheery, Bucky realized, grinning to himself. A cloth hung limply over the side of the sink behind him, but you were far more pressing. 

He wrapped his arms around your waist, standing behind you, and reacquainted himself with that sweet spot on your neck, hoping he could find it when you were vertical, too. A tiny squeak told him he had. “Yeah, Nat, it’s all figured out. The cake is ready. Mmhm -- yeah, oh it stopped?” 

Your fingers danced along the back of his hand, scars and all, as you wrapped up the conversation; Bucky could hear Natasha’s sharp, strident tone on the other end, and guessed she was probably dealing with a wealth of emotions at the prospect of Sam coming home. _That_ was something he could understand. 

A _click_ and a light thud, and you twisted around to press your lips to his, and Bucky wondered briefly how he’d even _breathed_ before this. “Mmm,” you hummed into his mouth, drawing away with a smile. “So much more effective a wake-up than coffee.” 

Bucky flushed, but leaned into the stroking cup of your hand just the same. “I agree,” he said, abruptly feeling shy. “‘S’a good morning.”

“Nat said it stopped raining,” you murmured, nestling your head against him. “We should probably get to that cake. And by that, I mean, you do it, and I’ll run down to the café and get us some bagels. Sound good?” 

He swallowed thickly, rubbing his hands up and down your back. The thought of being separated suddenly seemed extremely unpleasant, but bagels _did_ sound good… “You gonna make me clean this mess up all by myself, sweetheart?” he chuckled, glancing down at the mess on the floor. 

“Any chance I get to respectfully ogle your cupcakes, I’m taking it.” 

He blinked, opened his mouth to explain that he hadn’t made cupcakes, before your hands reached low and gently squeezed his behind. A waggling of your eyebrows sent the two of you back into peals of laughter, and the morning was lost in more kisses, a hasty cleaning of the kitchen, and an invitation to Sam’s homecoming party. Bucky didn’t even hesitate to say _yes._

* * *

“Nice to meet you, man.” Sam’s handshake was firm, though his eyes swam with tears and he had to contort his whole upper body to reach around his daughter, who had firmly looped her arms around his neck the moment he’d come in with balloons and a bouquet of flowers, and had yet to let go. “The cake is delicious. It’s my favourite, you know.” 

Bucky smiled. “My pleasure. Red velvet’s a classic flavour; you’ve got good taste.” 

“I, uh” -- Sam glanced around, eyes fixing on his wife, handing out some hot dogs to a gaggle of Riley’s school friends; beautiful red hair piled in an elegant bun -- “I ordered it as a joke once when we were dating, and it’s kind of endured.”

“Hey, Sammy!” A woman with a short, sharp bob squeezed his arm firmly, nearly upsetting her drink in the process. “Good to be home?”

The shadow that passed over Sam’s eyes as he replied was familiar to Bucky; he could feel it sometimes still, at the strangest of moments. Once, it had happened when waiting in the dentist’s office, and the hygienist had called out his surname in a strident voice far too reminiscent of his old sergeant’s -- it was the little, discordant moments that cropped up suddenly and and slyly, brutally reminding him that he hadn’t always lived in this easy world of dentist appointments, or house parties. 

“My wife mentioned that you were overseas,” Sam said quietly, rubbing Riley’s back. “I, uh...I’ve been home before, but never for the last time. Got an admin job starting next week at the base.”

Bucky nodded, recognizing the _between-the-lines_ question. “It gets easier. Important to have a good support system...hobbies.” His eyes softened as Riley squirmed in her father’s arms, twisted to look at him. “You’re gonna be just fine, man. I know it. And hey, I’m pretty sure Natasha’s got my number. I’m probably under the Cupcake Guy.” 

“That’s right.” Your voice was smooth buttercream; Bucky didn’t even startle as you wound your arm around his waist, looked at him with -- was that pride? Or just _I’m happy to see you_? “This is the Cupcake Guy, Sammy. He made Princess Riley’s unicorn cupcakes for her birthday.” 

“Is that right?” Sam kissed Riley’s temple as she nodded eagerly; Bucky grinned at the spray of glitter shimmering in her black curls. “Speaking of which, I think I’m supposed to be introduced to some new unicorns upstairs, right, honey?” 

“And a llama!” Riley squeaked, wiggling even closer and piping out an inventory of all her stuffed animals as her dad excused himself and headed for the stairs.

Bucky watched them go, your touch warm and welcome under his t-shirt. He’d foregone a long-sleeve shirt on this rather humid day, after racing home to shower off the pancake batter. The scars on his arm didn’t prove to be as much of a startling pity generator as he’d assumed, and even though one of Riley’s friends had gravely offered to get him a Paw Patrol band-aid (whatever that meant), no one had really paid any attention to it. 

“Did you get some lunch?” he asked you, pressing his lips to your forehead. Kissing you was still so new; it trembled in his belly, the scent of your shampoo, your perfume. 

“I made her eat in front of me.” A cool, swift voice cut through the soft exchange of smiles; Bucky felt the grin slide off his face when he turned to see Pam, _sans_ princess gown today, bearing an unreadable expression and a t-shirt advertising the college. “Hey, Cupcake Guy.” 

Guilt simmered and surged inside of him; he had to explain, had to apologize. He was a rotten person, a horrible guy, and he deserved to -- well, he certainly didn’t deserve the rosy blush on his cheeks when he thought about how pretty you sounded when he kissed your neck. “Pam, I’m so sorry,” he croaked, startled to feel you pull away. Ashamed. 

Pam’s eyes widened, glancing rapidly from you to Bucky. “Oh, damn. Bucky, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. I’m happy for you two,” she said earnestly, stepping forward with a gentle, bright beam. “Seriously. Look, I was...I was a bit misleading, I know. I liked you, definitely, but I was kind of trying to scope you out for my boss. Like any good employee.” A wink in your direction; Bucky felt tension trickle out at the notes of your laughter. 

“You always have gone above and beyond,” you said, reaching for Bucky again. “Look, we should probably all sit down and talk about why we all need to sit down and talk more often, huh?” 

Bucky looked down at his sneakers, overwhelmed by the day so far. Had it really only been a couple of hours since he’d woken up in your apartment? “It’s my fault,” he mumbled, shame burning his cheeks. “I’m sorry.” 

“No one’s hurt,” Pam said firmly. “I liked you, but as a friend. I’d still love to be your friend, Bucky, if you’ll have me.” 

“But the wedding --” 

A kiss to his cheek. “I was overwhelmed, baby,” you murmured. “About Kathy, and the brides...I should’ve been honest with you at the river, that I liked you, but we did talk in the cabin, right? And then I called Pam a few days later and we talked about it. No one is hurt. You don’t have anything to apologize for. Got that?” 

Bucky froze; let the word “ _baby_ ” sink into his skin, his bones, his soul. Didn’t it sound so pretty and soft on your lips? “We’re good?” he asked quietly, looking from you to Pam for confirmation. And then back again, just in case. 

“All good.” Pam grinned. “Although, if you two are going to be stuck in this kissy-kissy, lovey-dovey stage for too long, I might have to take a sabbatical.” 

“You’re royalty, Pam, you don’t get a day off,” you joked, extending an arm to gather her into a hug. Bucky squeezed her arm, smiled down at her, too. A friend? Yeah, he could always use more of those. 

* * *

_Two years later…_

Waves, steady and soft, crashed somewhere near his ear. Bucky stirred in the pale, watery light, rolled over to switch off his alarm. _Six a.m. already_? he thought blearily, rubbing his eyes. A deep yawn, and he stretched his arms up above his head. Hardly any pain these days, though the scars were as vivid as ever. His new physiotherapist, Bruce, had promised to look into some creams to perhaps reduce their appearance, but Bucky wasn’t too bothered by them. And neither were you. 

Missing his warmth, you shifted, grumbling in your sleep beside him and snuggling closer, seeking the firm feel of his side. Bucky smiled, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead, before carefully extricating himself from the soft embrace of the white duvet. Like sleeping in a marshmallow, he thought fondly, grabbing a pair of sweats before striding naked into the bathroom. 

It was mornings like these, in this new apartment, that Bucky really felt _home_. Safe enough to be vulnerable, to be bare. To hum a little as he moved around the roomy shower, scrubbing that new shampoo into his shortened hair and trying to avoid knocking over one of your many products. Something tender and innocent still purred gently in his chest every time he saw your toothbrush next to his on the bathroom counter, and he’d checked with Steve and Sam -- that feeling probably wasn’t going to go away any time soon. 

A company t-shirt finished his outfit -- he was still the Cupcake Guy after all -- and then Bucky leaned down to murmur a _good morning_ against your lips and tug the sheets a little further up your bare shoulder. “Coffee?” he asked quietly. 

Something unintelligible crawled out rather sluggishly from your lips, but Bucky understood. And it warmed him all over again that _he did_. “You got it, sweetheart.” 

A quick, quiet “ _good morning_ ” to the picture of his mother in the hallway, chosen because it was _your_ favourite: with a five year old Bucky, wearing matching Christmas aprons, patterned with gingerbread men. He lingered for a moment in the safe space of his mom’s smile, reminded himself again of just how much she’d love you. How she’d have been so happy to bake for you, same as he was. 

In the kitchen, Bucky got to work, switching on a soothing piano playlist to keep him company. The fish bubbled away in their aquarium in the living room; you’d read an article about how watching fish swim could be helpful for anxiety, and to be honest, he’d just been so grateful to have a partner who actually _did_ research into mental health, that he had gone out that afternoon to stock up without doing any research of his own. And he had to admit, watching the lithe patterns of the angel- and goldfish swimming to and fro in the calming aquarium scene you’d designed (featuring a ceramic cupcake) was extremely calming, especially in the aftermath of the occasional nightmare. 

More calming, however, was the bright, spacious kitchen he got to work in every morning. Not even work -- just _be_. The baking and experimenting he did up here was nothing like what he did downstairs. This was all for you -- for you and for him and the family and friends who came with hungry bellies and greedy hands, always happy to help him design new recipes and products for the bakery. Just a few days ago, he’d had Riley, Ava, and seven other elementary school students piled in the kitchen taste-testing his new s’mores collection. 

He smiled as he set up the coffeemaker, pulling your favourite mug from the cupboard as the fresh, rich scent filled the kitchen. A weary groan from the bedroom made him chuckle; as did the sound of shuffling feet, and then the creaking of the shower. 

Breakfast could wait, Bucky figured, gathering the ingredients he’d need for this morning’s project. He poured some milk into his preferred mixing bowl, one with a spout, and then plopped in three bags of Earl Grey tea to steep. Butter, sugar, eggs; some vanilla, flour,and baking powder. Just a bit of salt. 

_Lavender._ He didn’t keep that upstairs, and it was key. “Sweetheart, I’m just gonna be downstairs for a sec,” he called out, shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers by the door. Not that you’d even hear him or that he’d be gone long enough for you to notice, but it made Bucky so unaccountably happy every time he realized he had someone who _might_ worry about where he’d gone. 

The rush of the shower and the clattering thud of a bottle of shampoo or body wash, perhaps, was the only reply. 

And Bucky didn’t even jump. 

He entered the bakery through the back door, passing by his office and greeting the employees already on shift with a broad smile. “Morning, Jenny,” he said brightly to the head baker, already elbow-deep in dough. “We’ve got lavender, right?” 

“What kind of operation do you think we’re running here?” Sam gave him a wry smile, setting down his travel mug and plucking his apron from one of the hooks between the entrance to the kitchen and the office door. “I picked some up last week from the suppliers.”

Bucky greeted him with a clap on the shoulder. “Good weekend? How are the girls?” 

“Well, Alice took her first steps on Saturday, so Nat and I are about to lose our sanity, but other than that, great.” Sam shook his head, grinning. “How’s the birthday girl?” 

“Tired.” 

“I don’t even want to know why.” Sam grabbed a jar from the tallest shelf near the sink. “Here you go. Wish her a platonic ‘ _Happy Birthday_ ’ from me, would you?” 

Bucky laughed and tried to suppress a blush from rising to his cheeks, but there was no use. Since he and Sam had gone into business together last fall, their friendship had only gotten deeper -- attending group therapy sessions together helped with that, too -- but Bucky still wasn’t quite used to totally keeping his composure at the level of teasing that being Sam’s friend and colleague seemed to incur. 

Normally, Bucky had a hard time leaving the bakery on his days off, but today was special, and he took the stairs two at a time to get back to the kitchen. By this point, his timer for the tea bags had gone off, so he removed them from the milk and started mixing together the dry ingredients for the actual cupcakes. The shower had stopped; he could hear you walking around the bedroom. As he poured the batter into the _Happy Birthday_ liners he had carefully selected to match the intended shade of buttercream, he heard the light clacking of computer keys. 

_No way_. 

Three steps, and he was in your office. You had the good grace to look just a little guilty as you glanced over your shoulder. “Look,” you said, gesturing to the screen, “it’s just some emails, Bucky, it’s okay, it’s not technically _work_ \-- _ah_ , oh, okay.” A hum as Bucky’s lips moved against your throat, hands rubbing down from your shoulders to your upper arms. “Just two emails? Please?” 

“Nope.” Bucky lifted his head, kissed your cheek briefly, and then grabbed you by the hand. “We agreed; no work on your birthday. Just your favourite cupcakes for breakfast and a party tonight.” 

Your protests died away as he led you into the kitchen, lifting you -- oh, you liked the strain of his muscles under that t-shirt, he could tell by the look on your face -- to sit on the counter as he prepared the buttercream and slid the cupcakes in the oven. “Listen, _boyfriend_ ” -- a playful smirk betrayed your firm tone; Bucky rolled his eyes -- “what about all the time between breakfast and the party tonight, huh? Can’t I do a little work in between? You know I love your cupcakes, but it’s not like this is a national holiday or anything.”

Pale purple bloomed in the clear mixing bowl as Bucky finished up the frosting; a smear remained on his thumb. His cheeks burned bright and his gaze darkened though, as you tugged it to your lips and licked off the buttercream. “Mmm. Happy birthday to _me_ ,” you purred. 

“Your birthday _should_ be a national holiday,” Bucky said firmly, setting a twenty minute timer on his watch, before cradling your face in his hands and kissing you deeply. “That’s why we’re going to celebrate all day long.” 

“What did you have in mind?” you asked, looping your hands around his neck to pull him closer, fingers poking playfully at the hem of his shirt, tickling the bare skin underneath. 

“You may be the party planner, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, tilting your head gently to find better access to your throat, “but I know how to make this day pretty damn festive.” 

A sweet, sharp gasp burst from your lips, and Bucky let you ease the shirt from his shoulders. Your adoring touch against his skin brought him _home_ , as it did every single time, and he sank into the soft embrace of this tenderness, this acceptance, this sugar-sweet love he’d found with you.


End file.
